Baker's Dozen
by SomewhereApart
Summary: He comes in every day at 8:15, orders the same thing, and flirts with the girl behind the counter. Regina watches him from the kitchen of her bakery - appreciates, but doesn't approach. But as fall turns into winter, things begin to change. 13 weeks of modern AU Outlaw Queen, set in New York City.
1. Week One

It is an October Monday in New York City.

The leaves are turning on the trees, little pops of fiery color hovering above the sidewalks, crunching underfoot and collecting along the edges of streets that finally no longer smell like hot trash and gutter water. The summer tourists are gone and the Thanksgiving ones haven't yet arrived, so for a little while the sidewalks don't feel so congested.

The air has gone cool and crisp, summer's muggy heat has faded, and September's maddening inability to decide whether it wants to be too hot or too wet has finally settled into something stable and lovely. Sunny days with just enough chill in the air to warrant a light jacket, over a soft sweater, over a thin long-sleeve - layers you can peel off and put back on to keep from sweating or freezing. The scarves have come out, but not the mittens. The slouchy hats, but not the fur-edged hoods. It's denim over cashmere, not North Face zipped tight over wool.

It is perfection.

The best time of year as far as Regina is concerned, and a great time to own a small bakery down in the village that serves hot cocoa, and steamy chai, and warm, spiced cider sourced from an orchard not too far out of the city. A perfect time for apple turnovers, and pumpkin muffins, and citrus spice coffee cake. Business at the Forbidden Fruit bakery is good - a steady stream of people in and out the door, lingering around the three cafe tables she's managed to cram into the small space, or standing at the bar that runs along the front window. Most of them taking breakfast and a hot beverage to go as they hustle off to work.

They have their quiet moments, certainly, and right now is one of them. An odd lull in the morning rush, a moment for Ruby to call from the front, "Hey, Regina, we're getting low on the turnovers, and the apple bran and blueberry muffins. And are we gonna have any more of those sour cream apple crumb pies, or should I take them off the menu for the rest of the day?"

Regina pulls a rack of those exact mini-pies from the oven and raises her voice enough to be heard as she says, "Another dozen just came out. They need to cool, but we'll have them."

"Got it."

She sets the pies on a cooling rack, then reaches for her coffee - iced. She's peeled off the sweater, and the long sleeve, is down to the tissue-thin t-shirt she wears underneath and her apron - the one with the red apples that Henry got her for Mother's Day this year. The air outside may be perfect and crisp, but the kitchen of the bakery is warm, heat from the oven keeping it toasty enough for short sleeves. Even stripped down, she can feel sweat at the base of her skull, curling the dark hair there. Not that it matters - she's barely visible back here.

She leans against the counter for a moment and sips, surveys the kitchen while she decides what to do next. She wonders if Emma has dropped Henry at school yet, and glances at the clock to check the time.

8:14 and 42 seconds.

She takes another swig of coffee, then sets her cup down, and there he is.

8:15 am, and the little bell above the door jingles merrily, his voice cheerful and even when he says, "Good morning, Ruby." He greets her cashier by name, always, and Regina wipes her hands on her apron, and glances out through the pass-through as Ruby says _hey, Robin_. He is grinning, that wide, white grin, and Regina's heart stutters, as usual. It's criminal for a man to be that handsome, she thinks. To just walk around and subject all the women of Manhattan to those dimples, and that stubble, and that _accent_. If she wasn't half-covered in flour and sporting a thin sheen of sweat, she'd go out and say hello, let this be the day she finally takes a closer look, but it would be pointless. She's not the one he's here to see - that ship seems to have sailed before she ever had the chance to consider a ticket.

He's come in every morning for the last month, and every morning he has chatted and smiled and flirted with Ruby. He's partial to the mini pies - always asks Ruby what the daily special is, and orders it nine times out of ten (if not the special, then the lemon curd). A mini pie, and a large dark roast with room - Regina can hear every order through the pass-through, as long as the mixers aren't running.

She likes it that way - uses it to keep an ear out for what's moving. Occasionally catches a suggestion that inspires her into some new flavor combination she might not have thought of.

Today he orders the sour cream apple crumb - flavor of the day, as usual.

Regina reaches for her cell phone, and sends a text to Emma: _I trust you both woke up in time for school today?_

Her reply comes in seconds: _Ha. Ha. I just dropped the kid off. Still have choc croissant?_

_Yes_. Regina answers, and Emma says she'll be there in twenty.

As roommates go, Emma Swan doesn't give Regina much to complain about. She always pays the rent on time, doesn't bring home strange men, and even though she is not a morning person by any means, she has adjusted, dutifully ushering Henry from home to school every weekday morning so Regina can be at the bakery before the sun comes up. If she sleeps past noon on Saturdays and Sundays, well, what can really be expected of someone who spends half her nights hunting down guys who skip bail? As long as Henry doesn't get docked for tardiness during the week, she doesn't care what Emma does with her weekends. Henry is old enough now to fend for himself for a few hours of cartoons (she prefers reading or homework, but she knows he cheats her rules when it's just him and Emma), and she always bakes late on Fridays so she can cut out early on Saturday. Let Emma have her weekend to herself, while Regina takes Henry to a museum, or a park, or a movie.

Having a roommate at twenty-nine isn't ideal, but it means that she and her son (and Emma) can have their own rooms, and she doesn't have to worry about a nanny or daycare - things she can't really afford. It works for them. It's been five years since they all moved into the tiny three-bedroom (converted two-bedroom if you're being technical, but Henry is only ten and that glorified closet seems to do him fine. For now, anyway...), and by this point it seems more like Henry has two moms than a mom-plus-roommate.

Life is good.

Life is good, and there's an attractive man handing over his well earned money, making it her well-earned money now, and Regina pushes away from the prep counter. She has two more trays each of the muffins they're low on, but she needs to make another batch of apple turnovers if they're going to make it to lunch.

Hot British Guy is still there, lingering a little longer than usual today.

"This coffee is amazing," she hears him say.

"We sell it, you know," Ruby tells him, and they do - $14 a bag, but it's local and delicious and well worth it as far as Regina is concerned. It makes her a pretty penny, and the way they move through it, it seems New Yorkers don't mind paying a premium for quality. "We'll even grind it for you."

"Ah, but then what excuse would I have to come in and see your smiling face every day?" he flirts, and Regina is not jealous, because there is nothing to be jealous of. Envious, maybe. That she hides herself back here, safe, with her sugar and butter and flour and her industrial KitchenAid, while Ruby and her sunny smile get all the good looking foreign men. But then, Ruby's charm doesn't stop at attractive men. She is also good with the annoying customers, the picky ones, the ones that make Regina want to throttle them even from behind the barrier of the pass-through. So she supposes that's Ruby's reward for showing up every morning before the rush hour crowd (even when she's hungover or - not unheard of - still a little drunk), and dealing with the people Regina would rather not. She gets Hot British Guy.

"There's always the mini pies," Ruby points out, flirting, flirting, flirting. Regina can practically imagine the way she's probably leaning forward against the countertop, in that shirt that is too low-cut, but Regina's not picky about dress code as long as the till is even at the end of the day.

"Ah, yes," Robin agrees, adding, "The pie is definitely worth the return trip. And those chocolate croissants are nothing to scoff at either." And Regina smiles.

Maybe Ruby's grin, and her flirting, and her boobs are what make Hot British Guy linger, but Regina is churning out good product, she knows that. _Definitely worth the return trip._

Satisfied, if a bit wistful, she turns her attention back to the apple turnovers.

8:15. Wednesday. She hears the bell jingle, notes the time, but she's rolling out a pie crust, and is not a lovesick teenager but a grown and sensible woman, so she doesn't look up. She hears them talking - _What's new today, Ruby?_ and _Pear and ricotta, you have to try it. I've had like three already._ Regina frowns - no wonder she's already working on another batch. She's told Ruby it's fine to sample the wares - she gets all the coffee she wants and a couple of pastries on the house - but she's fairly certain she's told her to lay off the daily specials. Customers tend to get snippy when they arrive at 10am to discover they've already run out.

Her irritation distracts her as she reaches for the mini-crust cutter, letting the metal edge sink into the dough, and wiggling it slightly to make a clean cut. She does it several times more before Ruby calls out to her, "Hey, Regina! Come out here!"

She sighs and pushes back the wisps of hair falling from her short ponytail into her face, abandoning her task and making her way to the front of the shop.

He's still standing there, the beautiful man, Hot British Guy, (_Robin_, his name is Robin), the realization slowing her pace slightly. He's looking at her - his eyes are blue, she finally discovers. Regina swallows and fixes a glare onto her face - but a teasing one, not quite bitchy, not quite kind. She shifts it to Ruby, and questions, "Three?" and the girl has the decency to look sheepish, her nose wrinkling as she smiles guiltily at Regina. Robin chuckles, and oh, it's a good chuckle. Maybe he's there to flirt with Ruby, Regina thinks, but that won't stop her from privately appreciating his finer points.

"You really can hear everything back there, huh?" she asks, and Regina looks pointedly at the pass-through.

"It's wide open, Ruby," she says, smiling now. "So yes, I do."

"Can't really blame the lady," Robin says, and Regina shifts her attention, tries not to check him out, even though she's finally close enough to take in every lovely detail. He lifts the mini-pie it seems he has already taken several bites of before even leaving her register, and says, "This is exceptional - I wanted to deliver the message personally. You've quite the talent."

She licks her lips nervously - a rare showing - she's not the nervous type, but there's something about the way he looks at her that is... unnerving. She feels naked and frumpy at the same time. But she pushes it down, nods graciously and thanks him. Then, "You come in here a lot," she observes.

Robin nods, fiddles with his coffee cup, turning it slightly on the countertop. "Good service, great pie. And I live just down the street." He holds a hand out to her then, and introduces himself, "Robin Locksley."

Regina reaches across the counter and grips - nice, firm handshake, she likes that - saying in kind, "Regina Mills."

"This is your place?" He seems interested, conversational, not at all judgemental or doubtful.

"Indeed it is." She straightens her spine a little - she's quite proud of this little nook, of her successful business, even if her mother still makes that pinched, distasteful face when she has to tell people her little girl bakes cake for a living to support the child she had, unwed, at nineteen, instead of marrying some wealthy mover and shaker or becoming one herself.

"It's quite something," Robin says, adding, "I've come to think of it as mine as well, truth be told. My little bakery down the street."

When he gives her that charming smile, Regina can't help but answer it in kind.

"Every shop owner's dream," she assures.

The bell dings again - a couple and their two kids pouring in and chatting animatedly. The kids run up to the display case and press their hands right up to the glass, leaving smudgy fingerprints that she will have to remind Ruby to clean immediately once they leave. "Mommy, look, they have chocolate chip cake!" the boy shouts.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep you from your other paying customers," Robin tells her, grasping his coffee again. "Have a good day, ladies," he bids them, looking from Regina to Ruby before he steps back, out of the way, lifting his pie for another bite as he walks toward the door.

The family is at the counter now, the little girl gripping the edge and peering over - just eyes, and nose, and curly red hair. She tips her head back far enough to grin up at Regina, and she gives the girl a little smile and wave. People aren't her strong suit, that's why she has Ruby and Belle, but this much she can manage.

The girl giggles and says, "You've got white stuff on your face!" and Regina's eyes pop wide and slap onto Ruby's face, questioning.

Ruby gives her that same guilty I-ate-three-specials-this-morning grin and whispers, "There's some flour on your forehead."

"Thanks for the heads up," Regina grumbles, mortified, before retreating back into the kitchen, digging into her purse, pulling out her compact and yanking it open. Sure enough, right there on her temple, there's a blatant swipe of flour, streaking back into her hair.

Oh, good God.

She's going to fire Ruby.

Thursday, it rains. The bell doesn't ring for Robin until 8:22, and he looks hurried. There's a line today, but a short one, and she can see him fighting the decision whether to stay or go. Wherever he's off to at 8:15 every morning must be expecting him, and he's late. She's just slid a batch of cookies into the oven - she has a moment free before she starts on her next task (she wants to work on a new coffeecake - it's been a while since she changed up the menu). There's no reason he should have to wait, and no reason Ruby should be the only one who gets to talk to him, now that they've been properly introduced.

Nerves she can't quite explain jump up into her throat as she walks through the swinging door into the front of the bakery - is this going to make her look pathetic? No, appreciative, she thinks. Attentive. Regina reaches into the bakery case and pulls out a mini sour-cream-apple-crumb, and a mini lemon curd for good measure, dropping them into a box before she fills the coffee - large, dark roast - letting the liquid flow until it's reasonably shy of the lip. She sets the box into a paper to-go bag, then slips that into a plastic bag (it is raining, after all) and loosely balances a plastic lid on top of his steaming coffee.

By the time she's past the counter, he's studying his watch and grimacing, still three people ahead of him and one of them is being terribly indecisive. He starts to turn, to go, but she calls out to him - _Robin_ - and he stops. When she holds out the bag and the cup he looks torn somewhere between confused and impressed. "I appreciate my return customers," she explains with a smile she hopes looks easy and kind. He smiles back, and it does things to her stomach, as does the way his fingers brush against hers when he takes the coffee from her, and then the bag. Robin grimaces when he realizes his hands are full, saying something about getting at his wallet and trying to hand his order back momentarily. Regina shakes her head, and says, "Don't worry about it - you're clearly running late. You'll get us tomorrow."

"Indeed I will," he promises, and then, "Thank you. You're a lifesaver."

"Just a baker," she insists, as he steps the few feet to the side and reaches for the pitcher of half-and-half. She tucks her hands into the pocket of her apron to give them something to do now that they're empty (hears her mother's voice - _Regina, stop fidgeting_ - even though she is nearly thirty now and said mother has no say in her comportment), and feels a tug of annoyance that of all the men in New York City this one gives her the butterflies. They've barely spoken, and yet...

"Not just," he assures, fitting the lid properly onto his cup, and lifting it to her in a tiny toast. "These mini pies are magic."

She can't help the smile that tugs at her lips at the compliment, and she jerks her chin in the direction of the door, tells him, "Go. You're gonna be late."

He gives her another of those dazzling smiles, then turns, and heads back out into the downpour.

Friday morning, Ruby shows up twenty minutes late, and smelling like a distillery. Still in last night's dress, eye makeup more smudgey than smoky, her hair in a messy ponytail. Regina thinks the term "hot mess" would be apt, and she finds herself short-tempered and irritated over it. Ruby's young - just barely 21 - and she gets it, she can imagine what it must be like to be young, and hot, and in New York City (can't truly relate, because at 21, she had a toddler, and two jobs, and no late nights or drunken hookups, but she can imagine). Still, this is unacceptable.

Regina is lenient, but even she has limits.

"Are you serious?" she asks, when Ruby wobbles slightly on her too-high heels, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"I'm okay, I'm good," Ruby insists, and Regina's not sure if she's slurring slightly because she's still drunk, hasn't slept yet, or is just very hungover.

"You're a mess," Regina counters.

"No, I just had a few too many of the Thursday night drink specials," she excuses. Because God forbid she wait to party until Friday night, when she doesn't have to be up at the crack of dawn. "I just need some coffee."

"No, you need a shower and a change of clothes-" Regina watches as Ruby swallows heavily, suddenly looking rather green, "And you need to not, under any circumstances, vomit in this establishment." She grabs the girl's shoulders and pushes her toward the door. "Out. Go home, clean yourself up."

Ruby shakes her head, but doesn't stop Regina from frog-marching her. "But someone has to work the register."

"I'll call Belle," Regina sighs, resigned. Her afternoon help won't like it - Friday is usually her day off, but what other option does she have right now? She takes a dark little thrill of satisfaction in informing Ruby, "You can work her shift tomorrow."

"She's all the way in Brooklyn," Ruby points out, but her voice is going breathy. She's going to get sick, and then Regina will fire her. No, she'll kill her. She'll fire her, kill her, revive her, hire her back just so she can fire her again. This place banks on smelling like sugar and yeast and chocolate and Stumptown coffee, not regurgitated Thursday night drink specials. "She won't be here for like an hour."

"Yes, well," Regina clips, yanking the door open, patience shot. "You should've thought of that before you got blitzed last night. I'll manage until she gets here. _Out_."

She practically shoves Ruby out into the early morning, watching her like a hawk to make sure she doesn't get sick within ten feet of the bakery doors. When she's cleared safe distance, Regina turns back survery her currently empty establishment and forces herself to take a deep, cleansing breath. She checks her watch - 6:28. She won't have much of a rush until seven, she can get a few things prepped before then, in between customers. She'll have to put off the special orders she was planning on filling this morning to this afternoon, but she'll manage.

It takes her three calls to wake Belle, who agrees to come in even without Regina's incentive of time and a half pay for her trouble. But luck is not on Regina's side today, and Belle is late, too. Late, and hasn't called, and Regina knows it must be something - a stalled train, maybe, who knows - because Belle is responsible and would get in touch with her if she could.

But she doesn't, she is late, she is not here, and it has been a busy morning, has been two hours of Regina rushing between the register and the kitchen, trying not to let anything burn, trying to keep up with the customers who all seem to want three of everything today. They are snippy, and her temper is up, and there is a sharp ache throbbing at the base of her skull, wrapping around and gripping like a vice, so when that godawful, stupid, obnoxious bell dings at 8:15, just when she has gotten the chance to take a breath and head back to the kitchen to put in another batch of pumpkin spice muffins, she nearly sees red.

Can she not catch one single moment of peace this morning? Just one? That's all she asks.

She slaps the door open with enough force to have it nearly bounce off the wall, stalking through and heading for the counter, and she is not cheered in the slightest to see that it is him that has disturbed her. Robin. Hot British Guy. Here looking to flirt with Ruby, no doubt. She thinks he should just give the girl his number already, and get it over with.

He smiles when he sees her, but Regina is in no mood, her scowl is firmly fixed. Robin gives her a quick once over, that smile never wavering, and Regina is well aware of what she must look like - not her best, not nearly.

"No Ruby today?" he asks, and Regina's blood boils. He needs to order and get the hell out.

"She's not feeling well," Regina bites, tilting her head and asking pointedly, "Dark roast with room and a mini pie?" Robin nods, and Regina points to the case, orders, "Pick your poison," and turns to start his coffee.

"So you're all on your own then?" he asks, and Regina takes deep breaths, watches the coffee fill, doesn't answer him. The fact that she is there right in front of him should be answer enough. "You know..." he begins, just as she lets the lever go. "It's quite unkind to leave a label like 'chocolate bourbon pecan' in front of an empty space like that."

Regina feels a hot flare of annoyance, and grips his cup angrily, spinning around put it on the counter, but in her ire she turns too quickly and hot the liquid sloshes and lands on her hand. She lets out a hissing stream of curses that would probably make her mother faint - that makes Robin go from wincing sympathetically to raising his brows, impressed. It's not that the coffee is hot enough to burn badly (she's not interested in being subjected to that particular lawsuit), but it definitely smarts and it is just one more goddamn thing in this already shit morning.

"Are you alright?" he asks, as she presses a napkin to the scalded skin.

"Fine," she growls, "Just having a real banner day."

He nods, cautiously, trying to get a peek at the damage but not stupid enough to touch her.

"Do you want the pecan?" she asks, testily. They're out - she sold the last one in the case five minutes ago - but earlier, around 7:30, when she'd noticed they were flying through them and had felt decidedly more pleasant than she does now, she'd set one aside for him. He ordered the special, nine times out of ten, and she knew if he asked for something else, she could always put it back out.

"I'll take the lemon curd," he tells her, in a tone that makes it quite clear he doesn't want to trouble her any more than she is already troubled. Even his attempt to mollify, to make life easier on her, makes her angrier.

"Do. You. Want. The. Pecan?" she asks again, each word clipped and deliberate.

"The lemon curd is fine," he insists, and she should just give him the damn lemon, but she pulled the pecan for him, and she doesn't appreciate the way he is treating her with kid gloves, like she's some sort of bomb about to blow. Although she is, she really is, she can feel it in her thudding heartbeat, her pulsing headache, the way her eyes widen slightly. He must be able to see it, because he eyes her curiously and says, "Unless the pecan is readily available. In which case, yes, I would like the pecan."

Regina doesn't say a word, just reaches down under the counter and grabs the little cardboard box, setting it down forcefully. They make eye contact the whole time, and she thinks this spectacular show of temper will have her embarrassed come Monday, she'll end up hiding in the back rather than look him in the eye, but right now she is helpless to it.

She's about to reach for the register, about to ring him up, when the door clatters open again, and Belle rushes in, practically out of breath, spilling desperate apologies, and telling her how there were signal problems on the L and she was stuck underground and there was no signal, and she is so, so, sorry. So sorry.

Regina lets out a breath of relief, and waves in Robin's direction, tells Belle, "It's fine. You're here. Ring him up, I'm taking a break."

As she retreats into the back again, she balls her fists to keep them from shaking.

Unfortunately for her pride, she sees Robin again that very same day.

She's back in the kitchen where she belongs, finally working on filling those special orders, when she hears Belle's cheerful, "Well, who have we here?" and then a little boy's excited declaration, _I'm Roland!_

She glances at the clock. 3:05pm - the school after-school folks are starting to roll in. She thinks of Henry, sneaks a peek at the chocolate chip cookies she has in the oven. Almost done. She bakes them every Friday afternoon, times them perfectly so they'll be hot and gooey and delicious when he arrives. He gets two, with a tall glass of milk, and then he gets homework time until she's done for the day, or Emma carts him home.

"Hello, Roland," she hears Belle say, and then, "I'm Belle. It's very nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," he says, so polite - Regina smiles; she loves the polite ones.

And then she hears that voice - his voice - and her stomach twists into knots.

"What kind of pie would you like, Roland?" Robin asks, and Regina is too mortified by the way she'd dealt with him earlier to be curious. Maybe if she just stays over here at the prep table, he won't see her.

"Red!" the little boy half-shouts, resolutely.

Belle laughs a little, and Robin tells her, "He'll take the cherry, and a glass of milk. I'll take an apple spice cake and a large dark roast with room." Well, that's new. "To stay." That, too.

"Coming right up," Belle assures them, and Regina carefully places cherries around the edges of the black forest cake she's working on.

"Is Regina still here?" he asks, then, and she freezes. Crap.

"Yeah, of course," Belle says, and so much for hiding her mortification in the back. "Regina?" Belle calls back to her, with much less volume and force than Ruby - she actually bothers to duck her head into the passthrough instead of just using enough volume to carry. "There's someone here to see you."

Regina takes a deep breath, wipes her hands, sheds her apron and goes to face the music.

She walks up to the counter and offers him a "Hi," doing her best to lace it with enough apology that perhaps she won't have to awkwardly grant him the actual words.

"Hi," he answers, smiling warmly - he is always smiling, this man - and then he's holding his hand out, and in it, there's a single, hot pink Gerbera daisy. Regina blinks. What? She takes the flower, and eyes him curiously.

"Thank you, for earlier. For the pie." He shrugs a little. "For thinking of me, despite your 'banner day.'"

Regina jerks her shoulder in a half-assed shrug, then excuses, "Keeping the regulars happy is good for business," then concedes, "My temper, maybe not so much."

"We all have our bad days," he dismisses, and Regina nods, then watches Belle as she rounds the counter, carrying a glass of milk and a small plate with a mini cherry pie to the nearest table, where the little boy sits. Pre-school age, she thinks. Four, maybe five. He has dark hair that curls a bit, and deep dimples when he grins that make him unmistakably Robin's. He's a father, then. Interesting. She wouldn't have guessed.

"Your son?" she asks needlessly.

"Yes, that's Roland. He's been with his mother for the past few weeks, but he's all mine until Monday."

She glances at Robin then, and finds him watching his son, proudly, smiling at just the sight of him. She knows the feeling well, and Friday to Monday is an awfully short span of time, so she tells him, "Then, I won't keep you any longer." She tips the flower in his direction slightly, and says, "Thank you for this. It's sweet. Unnecessary, but sweet."

He shakes his head, and takes his own order from where Belle had left it on the counter in front of him. "We can't have the lady who makes our breakfast angry, now can we?" he asks, and then he's gone, off to his son, and Regina twirls the daisy in her fingers as she heads back to the kitchen.

It's going to be a little harder to watch him flirt with Ruby every morning, now that she's had the full brunt of his charm turned on her for once. But she'll take what she can get, because she doesn't often get much these days. She drops the flower into a glass of water, and pulls the cookies from the oven when the timer beeps.

Robin and Roland are still there when Henry and Emma arrive a few minutes later, so Regina sends out two plates of cookies instead of one. She hopes he won't resent her for the inevitable sugar high.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__So, I've obviously taken a couple liberties here, cuz it's AU, and I can. lol I wanted R & R to still have that parental bond that they share, but I also had this very distinct image of where I wanted Regina to be age and lifestyle-wise. Which is why Henry is hers biologically here - I couldn't justify her having a ten year old that wasn't hers, when she's not yet tipped thirty and is not someone of means. So Henry is hers, and they live with Emma, and he still gets to have his two moms, but without all the drama that sometimes comes from their particular history on the show. And Roland and Henry are closer in age, because, frankly, Ro's more fun as a four year old than a two year old. Robin is divorced instead of widowed, because it's both less dramatic and more, if that makes sense._

_So there ya go._


	2. Week Two

Monday is Columbus Day.

Forbidden Fruit closes at noon.

Regina has been there since four - she gave the girls the day off, imagining business would be slow and she could hack it alone for six hours of back-and-forth. Even after the debacle that was Friday morning. She came in an hour early to compensate, to make sure there was enough product to live up to their Baked Fresh Daily promise in the case of an unexpected rush and to pre-bake a bit for Tuesday. Tuesdays they sell bread - glossy, golden challah; thick, chewy honey wheat; tangy sourdough. Dinner rolls, and crusty baguettes. The once-a-week rarity creates a bump in demand, and Regina can recognize several faces that come in only on Tuesdays, just for bread. She doesn't want to disappoint, but closing for the afternoon cuts into her usual prep time.

She will not stay a minute past 12:30, though. Not today. Henry is off school, and Regina has promised she will spend the day with him - an easy commitment to make, considering she sometimes sees him much less than she'd like. She misses mornings, regrets that she is nearly never there to fix him breakfast and make sure he brushes his teeth and walk him to school. She has his late afternoons and his evenings, has an hour before lights out every single night when she hauls herself up onto his loft bed and curls up with him, reads to him from the book du jour. Right now, it's the Harry Potter series, and he's obsessed.

_"Mom, can you make that?"_ he asks about every confection the books mention, wants her to attempt treacle tart and trifle and rice pudding and chocolate gateau.

It's been blessedly slow today, so she's actually had the time to make an attempt at the treacle tart. She thinks she's done alright - she made minis, because it's not as though she doesn't have a glut of experience in that regard, and she's topped them all with little shortbread stars. Very Harry, she thinks. Henry will be pleased.

And now it is ten minutes to twelve, and Regina is wiping down her kitchen, preparing to leave it spotless and in order. The more she gets done before she locks the door, the sooner she can get to Henry and an afternoon snuggled on the sofa with _The Chamber of Secrets_.

When she hears the jingle of the bell over the door, she groans quietly. She was really hoping nobody else would come in before closing. But a glance through the pass-through reveals two patrons she doesn't mind entertaining for a moment. If it has to be anyone, Robin and his adorable child are pretty high on her list of acceptable stragglers. If for no other reason than that she's fairly certain they'd leave right now if she said she was closed ten minutes early.

She doesn't do that, though, because she remembers Robin saying he only has Roland until today, and who is she to deny some sweet treats to a father and son about to be parted for however long.

She tugs her hair out of its ponytail, then scoops it right back up into it, making it a little smoother, a little neater as she pushes through the swinging door.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she greets pleasantly, and Robin gives her a hopeful look.

"We're not too late, are we?" he asks, and she smiles, shakes her head, takes her place behind the counter as if that's the most natural place in the world for her to be.

"You have," she glances at her watch, "Eight whole minutes. But we're out of coffee for the day."

Robin winces. "Oh, now that's sad news," he commiserates, and then he's reaching down and scooping Roland up to rest on his hip in a practiced move that makes Regina's ovaries ache. There's something about a dad, she thinks - something about an attractive man and his young son. She thinks maybe it's because Henry grew up without one, because she was denied the chance to watch Daniel pick him up just that way, to watch him teach their son to throw a baseball or tie his shoes. There's a dull throb in her chest at the thought, but it's old pain. Muted. He's been dead as long as Henry has been alive, and she's grieved and moved on. Grown accustomed to life as a single mom - wouldn't know what to do with a co-parent to be honest (unless, of course, you count Emma). She pushes the thought back, down, and watches the way Robin looks at Roland and asks, "What shall we have instead?"

"What'cha got?" Roland asks her, and Regina contemplates what she can make quickly.

"Mm. Hot tea, cold cider, milk, _chocolate_ milk..."

"How about cider?" he asks the boy, and Roland gives the most resolute single nod in response that Regina can't help but chuckle. Robin looks back to her, smiling in a way that reaches his eyes but only just. Their time is waning, she remembers, the minutes dwindling as they stand. She wonders how often he gets the boy, thinks it's likely not often if he's already starting to get that look.

"We'll have two," Robin orders, and Regina turns toward the mini fridge behind her immediately, not wasting a moment to get them served and settled. As she retrieves the jug of cider and pulls two plastic to-go cups from the top of the stack on the back counter, she hears Robin ask Roland what he'd like to eat. While the boy considers his options, Robin asks her, "You're alone again today?"

"It's a holiday," she reminds. "Didn't seem fair to make the girls get up early."

"So instead you do?"

She shrugs, says she's used to it, and then Roland is asking his father for help choosing.

The boy hems and haws, turning down several suggestions (blueberry muffin, pumpkin loaf, the last slice of apple streusel cake). Regina has lidded their drinks, turned to the front counter, settled straws on top of both cups, and still Roland hasn't made up his mind. He makes a show of humming thoughtfully, his little mouth in a pursed pout, moving one way, then the other. And then he points - to the back counter, behind Regina - and says, "What're those cakes, daddy?"

Regina turns to see what he's looking at. The treacle tarts - she's slipped them into cellophane bags and piled them there to take home. A half dozen minis - two each for her and Emma and Henry (not that she'll eat two, but Emma will probably eat three if she's offered - the woman's got a sweet tooth that leaves Regina surprised she doesn't have a mouth full of cavities).

"Oh, I don't think those are for us," Robin tells Roland gently, and the boy sticks that bottom lip out and levels his father with wide, dark, puppy-dog eyes. Oof. "They're all wrapped up, you see."

"He can have one," Regina finds herself saying. She'll save Emma the dentist visit. "They're treacle tarts."

Robin's brows raise in interest. "Treacle tarts? Really. Not quite your usual fare."

"What're those?" Roland asks, and Robin tells him they're sweets from England, that daddy used to eat them when he was a boy at school, but hasn't had any in a long time.

"I made them for Henry," Regina explains. "He's going through a Harry Potter phase right now. Quite the little Anglophile."

"I know Henry!" Roland pipes up. "He's my friend."

"Is he now?" Regina asks, giving Roland her full attention as he nods eagerly. She knows that the boys were parked at neighboring tables on Friday afternoon, could hear the lot of them - Henry and Emma, Robin and Roland and even Belle when there were no other customers - chatting away as she worked in the back.

"He's ten," Roland says, very impressed with his knowledge, and, Regina suspects, with knowing a big kid.

"He _is_ ten," Regina confirms, and she can't help grinning at him. What a cutie. "And how old are you, Roland?"

He holds out his hand, thumb tucked into his palm, the rest of his little fingers splayed. "I'm this many."

"Ah, and how many is that?" she asks him, and he puffs himself up a little against Robin's shoulder before he tells her proudly _Four_. "Wow," Regina marvels, exaggeratedly impressed. "You're getting to be a very big boy."

He nods his chin up and down once, and says, "That's what daddy says."

She glances at Robin, who is shaking his head at the two of them. Amused. Jesus, he's attractive when he smirks like that.

Regina forces her attention back to the boy, because it's safer, and easier, and makes her feel less foolish and less like a hormonal teenager.

"Your daddy is quite right."

"Daddy, can I have a treeple tart?" Roland asks, turning his head to look at his father "R'gina said okay."

"They're for Henry," Robin reminds him. "We shouldn't take Henry's treats, now should we?"

"But there's a bunch!" Roland protests happily, pointing again. "See? A whole bunch, daddy."

Robin lifts his hand to cover Roland's and draw it down, and Regina turns and grabs two cellophaned tarts. "Roland, my boy, it's not polite to point like that. You know that."

The little boy is scowling when she turns around, muttering a chastened "Sorry," and Regina sets the tarts right there in front of them, one next to each drink.

"I insist," she tells Robin. "Really. If you don't eat them, I have to take them all home, and then they'll either show up on my hips or power my son through an afternoon sugar rush. And to be entirely honest, I've been up a long time and I'm really looking forward to something a bit quieter for the rest of my day."

"Well, if I'd be doing you a favor..." Robin says, feigning gallantry, and setting Roland down when Regina nods. Roland lets out a triumphant little _yayyyy_ even though Regina is pretty sure he has no idea what the confection actually tastes like. But he's gotten his way, he knows that. Robin pulls out his wallet and asks, "What do I owe?"

"Five for the ciders," she tells him. "The tarts are on the house."

Robin frowns at that. "Regina, no. I'm taking your handiwork, I'm more than happy to pay for it."

She shrugs, pleased with herself, and tells him, "They're not on the menu. No price point. Five dollars, please." And she knows she can get _her_ way - she is certain of it - with what she says next: "And then get out - it's noon; I'm closed."

She grins, so he knows she's kidding with him, and Robin shakes his head again, chuckling this time, and fishes out a ten dollar bill. "Keep the change," he tells her, handing the tarts to Roland, and grabbing their ciders himself. "I never paid for those cookies you gave us on Friday."

Regina rolls her eyes, good-naturedly and takes the money as Roland crinkles cellophane noisily. "You also never asked for them," she points out. "Charging you would've been rude."

"Then consider it a tip," he tells her, just before Roland announces around a mouthful of sugary sweet _This is good, daddy!_. Robin's phone rings shrilly at the same time, and he fishes it out, frowns deeply at the name on the display, and tells Roland quickly to say goodbye to Regina before answering.

Roland swallows, and manages a "Bye, Ergina," then gets ushered toward the door by his father with a gentle hand to the back of his head.

She follows them, to lock up, and as such she hears all of his phone conversation whether she wants to or not.

"We'll be there in a minute, I'm just getting him a snack... Yes, I know it's lunchtime, but we had a late breakfast... He'll be fine, Marian, he just needs his bag... We're around the corner; be patient for just one moment, please..."

He pauses at the door and gives her a silent wave, but he's still scowling, troubled. Regina waves back, shuts the door in their wake and turns the deadbolt with a loud click before she flips the OPEN sign to read CLOSED.

She leaves for good at 12:32, and the treacle tarts are just as much a hit at home as they were with Roland.

**.::.**

Tuesday finds Regina overtired and surly.

She'd fallen asleep in Henry's loft bed last night, midsentence in their book, and as a result, she overslept. Didn't get in until half past five, and there is bread to be baked, and turnovers to be made, and she is in a _mood_.

She hears Robin's voice at 8:15, on the nose - at least she assumes that's what time it is, because he is unfailingly punctual. She is too absorbed in pulling things out of the oven to check the clock, and what real reason does she have to anyway? It's not as though she uses him to mark time during her day (she does, she realizes with a start. She's begun to use Robin Locksley to judge the halfway point between warming up the ovens and lunch. She'll have to put a stop to that).

He flirts with Ruby - as usual - and it annoys Regina - _un_usual. She tells herself to ignore it, that he's always flirted with Ruby, that she has Henry and a job that drags her out of bed at 4:15 every morning (which has her in bed by ten every night - she is perpetually one day behind on every TV show she enjoys). She has no time for flirting or handsome men with charming sons and ex-wives that make them scowl. She has no right to be bothered by anything he does with anyone else. But then he chuckles, and Ruby does, too, and Regina burns.

By the time Robin leaves, she is punching down a loaf of dough, the steady sinking of her knuckles into the pliant stuff oddly soothing this morning.

Ruby seems to sense her sour mood and gives her a wide berth, and Belle does, too, come afternoon.

Regina goes home with a headache.

**.::.**

On Wednesday, she debuts apple cider donuts, and they sell out almost faster than she can make them.

Even Robin abandons his usual order of pie for the sugar-crusted treats.

"You should definitely try them," Ruby tells him, and he must take a piece from the sample bowl they cannot seem to keep filled, because it's not even a minute later that she hears him moan softly and ask _Did Regina make these?_

Of course she did, Regina thinks with a scowl, and "Of course she did," Ruby tells him with that megawatt smile that Regina can hear even from where she stands.

"Will you ask her if she'll come cook for me every day?" he asks, and Ruby actually manages to holler _Reg-_ before Regina hears Robin speak over her, laughing, and "No, no, no. I was kidding, Ruby."

Regina turns the mixer on the muffin batter she's been prepping, the steady whirring drowning out the rest of the conversation. Ruby saunters in a few minutes later and tells Regina that they need more donuts (which she already knows), and that Robin Locksley requested donut holes, and said if they made them tomorrow, he'd take three dozen with him to work for his students. (He teaches? This doesn't sound like news to Ruby, but then they must talk about more than pies and pastries on those days when she misses the bits and pieces of their conversations.)

Regina had been saving the donut holes to bring home for Henry and Emma (the ones that didn't get pilfered for the sample bowl, or consumed by her and Ruby, anyway), but for the rest of the day, she splits the spoils - a third into the cardboard carton she'll be bringing home, and the rest out for the public.

**.::.**

She does the same in the morning, and by 8:15, she has three to-go boxes in a stack, tied together with twine, each containing a dozen apple cider donut holes.

She sets them on the pass-through at 8:05, but when quarter past rolls around, she's in her office, sipping a chai tea, popping day-old donut holes in her mouth one by one and going over payroll. By the time she emerges, the boxes are long gone and so is Robin, and that is fine. It's not as though she has to see him daily. Just because he's attractive. Just because she likes his smile.

But when Ruby folds her arms over the pass-through ledge and says to Regina, "Robin says thanks for the donut holes. You've just, and I quote, 'made a bunch of poor sleepy freshman very happy,'" she can't help asking what exactly it is that Robin teaches.

"English," Ruby tells her. "He's a lit studies professor at The New School."

She has a sudden image of Robin leaning against a lectern, that accent talking about Chaucer and Voltaire, maybe even with glasses, and suddenly he's even more attractive than he was before. Great. She bets his students - the ones who are interested in men, anyway - have no problem staying awake for him, even for an early class.

"Tell him 'you're welcome,'" she tells Ruby, because she doesn't know what else to say, and the girl smirks at her and says _Tell him yourself tomorrow, I'm not a messenger service_.

That night, she dreams of him. Of sitting front row in a lecture hall and Robin watching her, smirking as he asks questions, encouraging his students (of which there are exactly three - her, Ruby, and Belle spaced around the cavernous room) to tell him about the themes in _The Canterbury Tales_ and _The Iliad_, and she is lost. She read that last one, ages ago, but she can't remember anything, not one thing, and ninety percent of the answers come from Belle. She reads constantly during her shifts, between patrons. Every week a different book, Regina has noticed with envy. Ruby chews on the end of her pen, crosses and uncrosses her legs, raises her hand and makes surprisingly astute observations for someone who reads _Vogue_ and _US Weekly_ and _Cosmo_. Eventually, Professor Robin switches the topic to the Baudelaire children, and Regina finally stops feeling like an idiot. This is her wheelhouse.

And then the dream shifts, and the lecture hall is empty save the two of them. They are pressed up against the blackboard, the chalk tray digging into Regina's hips as Robin kisses her and kneads her ass and grinds against her. One of her knees is hiked up against his hip, and she is wearing a criminally short skirt, and his hand moves, inches higher and higher up her thigh, and then her alarm goes off.

The shrill beep, beep, beep pulling her into the waking world at precisely 4am.

**.::.**

Regina isn't sure whether she should be frustrated or relieved at her dream being so rudely interrupted, but when she hears that bell chime at 8:15 on Friday morning, she feels intensely awkward about the whole thing. On the one hand, she's a warm-blooded woman who has not seen any action that wasn't battery operated in literally years at this point; she is allowed the occasional wet dream (and it wasn't even that wet - it had been cut short so early on). On the other, she runs the risk of maybe having to look him in the eye without thinking about the way Dream Robin's stubble had tickled against the crook of her neck while he sucked at her pulse, and that's... that may be harder to permiss.

She manages, though, when he pops his head into her kitchen unexpectedly - thanking her in person for the donut holes the day before, lamenting the lack of them today.

She tells him maybe next week, and smiles pleasantly, and does not blush in the slightest.

Proud of herself, and pleased with her poise, she puts the dream out of her mind.

**.::.**

She has a mission to complete on Friday afternoon. She leaves the bakery for Belle to lock up and closes the last button of her peacoat after all when she finds the afternoon sun comes with a biting, gusty wind.

As she'd stumbled around in the half-dark this morning, she'd managed to step on one of Emma's DVDs in the living room. She's not sure why it was on the damn floor, but it was, and she'd managed to put a deep crack in it. Ruined. And of course, it was Waitress, the DVD that Emma had *just bought, that she had been meaning to buy for ages, because she likes Nathan Fillion, and she thinks maybe if Regina watches it, she can talk her into making the Marshmallow Mermaid Pie.

It had come in the mail literally two days ago, and now it was unwatchable (although clearly Emma has made it through one viewing already).

Regina had tossed the disc in the trash and hoped she could find a replacement copy before Emma noticed hers had gone missing. So that's where she's headed now, to The Mines, one of the few actual video stores left in this godforsaken city. It specializes in rarities - indie movies, foreign films, things that are out of print. Has rows and rows of them crammed into a small, dark space. If she can't find the movie there, she'll hit up Amazon, but she's made some good finds here and she prefers to support local businesses when she can.

She waves at the surly looking guy who runs the shop (he's a real film buff, and friendlier than he appears, especially if you can get him going on something or other related to his passion).

"Hey, sister," he greets. "Looking for anything in particular today?"

Regina tugs her hat off (it's warm and cozy inside), and presses her palms to the edge of the checkout counter as she nods. "Waitress," she says. "It's an indie movie, Nathan Fillion, Kerri Russell...?"

He smirks. "Pie movie for the pie lady, huh?" and Regina is just relieved he at least knows the movie she's referencing. He jerks his chin toward the far rear corner. "We've had it, but I don't know if we still do. Check the section. If it's not out, I can look in the back for ya, but I don't think we carried very many copies."

"You're a lifesaver, Leroy," she insists, heading for the the shelves of Independent films, and then the chunk of rows underneath the hand-scrawled COMEDY sign. She skims the titles - jumps from the A's to the M's to the T's, U's, V's, and then finally flicks her gaze up for the beginnings of the W's on the top row of the next block of shelves.

Relief floods her when she spies the gingham cover, the lattice-top pies, Kerri Russell's sunny yellow dress. Problem solved.

But as she reaches for the case, someone else does too, a hand falling over hers on the plastic. She startles, and turns, and blinks dumbly.

Robin.

Logically, she knows he exists outside of Forbidden Fruit. She sees him come and go, after all, and she's heard him say he lives nearby. The Mines is only four short blocks from the bakery. They're on his turf. Still, it surprises her to see him here, out in the world.

He makes a face of surprise - but not genuine surprise - to see her too, and she guesses he saw her before she did him.

"You, too?" he asks, and she frowns.

"What?"

"Waitress," he tells her, pulling the DVD down from the shelf. It's the last copy.

"I- You're here for Waitress?"

"It appears that way," he tells her, and she's so thrown by his presence that she misses the meaning of what he says entirely. Only hears that he's here to pilfer the movie she has so conveniently managed to find in time to rectify her early morning stomping casualty.

"It's a rom com," she says dumbly, her hand falling onto the case, gripping, giving it a little tug. Like she's five. Like she's Henry when they were struggling with the concept of sharing, but Regina has never been great at letting other people have the things she believes are rightfully hers.

"Excuse me?" He's smiling at her, pleasantly, like he has some little secret that she is not in on. It makes Regina uncomfortable, sets her off-kilter.

She tells herself to pull it together, clears her throat slightly and straightens her spine. Smooths her expression into something less idiotic, more casual. "I just mean it doesn't seem your type of movie, that's all."

"Ah," he remarks, nodding. "I see. Well, perhaps I simply enjoy watching attractive women bake," he posits, with an overly innocent face. Regina frowns. Wait. What? Is he - flirting? Before she has a chance to respond, he continues, "Let's make a deal. I will relinquish the DVD, if you'll have dinner with me."

Wait - _what?_ That is definitely flirting.

Her frown becomes a confused scowl. Is she dreaming again?

"You - want to go to dinner with me?" she questions. That's not right - he wants to go to dinner with Ruby. He comes in every morning at 8:15 and flirts with _Ruby_.

That innocent face becomes and easy smile and he asks her, "Regina, why do you think I come into your bakery every morning?"

"Ruby," she answers, automatically, the hand not still gripping that dumb DVD rising to tuck her hair behind her ear nervously. God, it's probably a mess - it was up for most of the day, it surely has that telltale pony bump. She should've kept her hat on. "And... pie."

"Pie," Robin concedes, as if he hadn't really considered she might come up with that honest response. But then, "Ruby's a bit young for my tastes, though - and knows it. She's friendly, and I will admit that we may flirt a bit but it's harmless. I come in there every morning because the food is good, yes, but moreso because I hope I might catch a glimpse of you."

Regina's fingers are limp against the DVD case now, not gripping, just resting, but he's still holding onto it.

"You come in... for me?"

This... is new information. She has never even considered the possibility of this - he has been coming every day for a month and a half, and they have only just spoken a week ago. How could he possibly have been - well, she knows how he could possibly have been, because she can see the front of the shop just as easily as it can see her kitchen. But she'd never considered, not once, that he was actually looking the same way she was.

"I see I've thrown you," he comments, looking entirely too pleased with himself for her tastes. But his eyes are honest, his face earnest when he tells her, "Yes, I come in hoping to see you. You're beautiful. And feisty, as it turns out, and you can bake things that could make grown men weep." A beat, and then he gives her that smirk "And you wear an apron quite well."

For some reason, that's the thing that snaps Regina out of her stunned fog.

She rolls her eyes, and says, "Okay, you're complimenting my apron, now I know you're messing with me."

Robin chuckles, presses a hand over his heart and says, "I'm not, I swear. I'd very much like to see more of you, Regina. Perhaps somewhere that doesn't have you wearing flour - although I do find that quite charming as well."

She feels her cheeks flush a little at the memory - wonders exactly how many times she has been dusted with flour or sugar, glazed with sweat from the heat of the oven, her hair escaping its ponytail while he has sought out the sight of her. God. And he still wants to date her after that? Who is she to say no, really?

Plus, if she's honest, she really does like him. Likes those eyes and that easy smile, and the way he is with his son. (For once, a man who won't be thrown by the revelation that dating Regina also comes with a fourth-grader.) For the first time since they both reached for that same DVD she lets herself absorb what is happening here - a man who she finds incredibly attractive also seems to find her incredibly attractive. Flattery blooms warm in her chest, curves her lips into a smile.

She reaches for the upper hand again, asks him as if it's a dealbreaker: "And I get to keep the DVD?"

Robin grins; he knows he's got her. "You get to keep it either way."

"Alright..." Regina agrees carefully, nodding slowly, and Robin presses the DVD case more firmly toward her grip. "Dinner. Sunday night?"

Because tonight, she has promised to make lasagna, and Saturday is for Henry and popcorn and _The Sword in the Stone_.

"Perfect," he tells her, smiling all the while.

They exchange phone numbers, and Regina leaves the store with a DVD, a date, and a wide, wide grin.


	3. Week Three

_**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews! Also, note the rating has been changed starting with this chapter._

* * *

"A date?" Emma asks her from the other side of the sofa where she is curled with her knees tucked up, bare feet shoved between the cushions to keep warm. "I wasn't sure you knew what that word meant."

"Very funny," Regina mutters with a roll of her eyes, carefully painting her fingernails (she's already finished her toes) in a bold red that matches the dress she plans to wear tomorrow night. The red one she bought over a year ago "for a rainy day" that still has the tags on it. The sleeves are a little too short for the weather but it flatters her, and she likes the slim keyhole in the top, likes the way the red works with her skin tone and her dark hair. She'll wear high boots, and stockings, a scarf and gloves, and hopefully not freeze.

"Who's the lucky guy?"

Regina fights the urge to smile as she answers, "Robin." And then off Emma's blank look, "From the bakery. Roland's dad - you talked to him for nearly two hours last week?"

"Oh, him," Emma realizes, reaching forward to grab her mug of cocoa (it's Regina's mug, she notes. The cream colored one with the black R on the side, and why Emma can't use any of her own four mugs, why this one seems to be her favorite, Regina has yet to figure out). She sits back into the plush blue cushions, smirking. "Well done. He's pretty cute."

"I didn't do," Regina says primly, finishing the last nail and carefully capping the polish, letting the bottle rest on the dark wood of the coffee table in front of her. "He did."

"Does it matter? You're going out with a nice, good-looking guy who won't be scared off by you having a kid and isn't a weird, stalkery creeper." Regina scowls at the reference to Sidney, and relaxes back into the cushions next to her roommate, resting her hands carefully on her pajama-clad thighs and focusing on not moving, not smudging. "Whoever did the doing, you're getting a pretty good deal. So, to answer your initial question: no, I have no plans tomorrow night, and yes, I am more than happy to hang out with Henry while you go get your groove back."

"I will not be getting any grooves. This isn't that kind of date," Regina protests, lifting one hand and blowing lightly on her nails. She doesn't paint them often - with a job that requires constant use of her hands, manicures never last long enough to be worth it (and to be honest, she almost always ends up ruining them before they dry anyway. She's never been good at sitting still). But she has an excuse to be fancy for a night, and she's taking it. The dress, the nails, full makeup and heels. She even has ridiculously impractical underwear picked out, despite the fact she has no intention of letting Robin see it.

"Why not? You're both attractive, single adults. And it's not like you've gotten any since-"

"Graham?" Regina finishes with a pointedly arched eyebrow. Graham hadn't been serious - just a dalliance - and the situation had gotten sticky almost as soon as it had started to move toward anything more. The first time she'd brought him home to her place instead of meeting at his, he'd met Emma and there had been obvious chemistry there. Regina had ended things before they could get any more awkward, and Emma had had the good grace not to pursue him. And she doesn't blame the blonde, not really, but it isn't easy for Regina to make time for men, not with her schedule, not with Henry, and so she won't let Emma rib her over her lack of sex life when it's partially her fault.

"Right," Emma says, glancing down into her cocoa with just a hint of guilt. "Since then."

Regina pushes them past the momentary air of awkwardness with, "It's a first date. We're going to have dinner, and talk, and maybe he'll kiss me goodnight and that'll be that. No hanky panky."

"Hanky panky?" Emma questions, "What are you, sixty?"

Regina rolls her eyes again and reaches for the remote, restarts the Game of Thrones rewatch Emma had paused in order to mock her. She's forgotten her wet nails for a moment, and one smudges. With a sharp flare of annoyance, Regina reaches for the bottle of polish again, hoping she can repair it without starting over completely.

Emma must get the hint (or at least, can see it's not the moment to test her patience further), because she changes the subject: "So, breakfast: pumpkin waffles?"

"You making them?"

Emma snorts. "Depends. How attached are you to the idea of the kitchen being clean and scorch-mark-free?"

**.::.**

Regina is honest with her son, as a rule. As honest as any parent can be, anyway. As such, she has no intention of keeping Henry in the dark about her plans for the evening, and even if she did, Emma outs her at breakfast.

"Hey, kid, guess who has a hot date tonight?"

"Ew," he grimaces from where he kneels on his chair at the tiny table in their tiny kitchen. _Butts in seats, Henry_, Regina tells him and she shoots Emma a look as Henry slides his legs out from underneath him and continues, "I don't want to hear about you kissing people, Emma. It's gross."

"Not me," she grins, pointing her fork in Regina's direction, syrup dripping off the square of pumpkin waffle she'd speared. Henry's head whips around, eyes going wide as they land on his mother.

"_Mom?_" he questions, and Regina sets her plate down on the table in front of the empty chair, then sits down with an annoyed sigh.

"Yes, me," she admits, and then, testily, "And that's exactly the way I would have planned to tell him, thank you for that, Emma."

Emma shrugs around her mouthful, swallows, and reasons, "He was going to find out eventually. And, c'mon, Mom going on a date is big news around here."

Regina shakes her head, cuts her waffle, but Henry is still eyeing her strangely.

"Who's the guy?" he asks her, and she tells him, and he frowns. "Oh. I guess he's okay." Then he seems to grow determined, straightening his spine, lifting his chin. "But I have to talk to him about some stuff before he can take you on a date."

Regina had a bite of waffle halfway to her mouth, but she pauses at that, brows rising. "Really? Do you?"

Henry nods. "Yeah," he insists. "I'm the man of the house. He can't date my mom without telling me about his intentions."

Regina almost laughs (Emma actually does). Where does Henry get this stuff?

"Is that so?" she asks, trying to hide her amusement, because she can tell that Henry is absolutely serious about this. He hadn't known about Graham - too young then for her to risk having to explain why a man would be spending the night but not be her boyfriend. And he'd met Sidney (because he had been everywhere before he finally moved to Chicago, had come into the bakery often, had "just happened to be walking by" the park when she was there with Henry), but she'd told him in no uncertain terms that Sidney was just an acquaintance. This is the first time she's gone on a date that he's been aware of, she realizes, and the idea that he feels the need to play protector charms her. Her little knight.

"Yes," Henry is telling her. "That's the way it works. He has to, like, ask me for your hand or something like that, right? Isn't that how it happens in the movies?"

Regina shakes her head, says, "Henry, we're not getting married, we're getting Italian food," and finally takes that bite. (To her credit, Emma had actually attempted to make the waffles this morning, and despite her inflated claims that she might manage to burn down the kitchen, she's actually a decent cook. She is, however, not what anyone would consider neat, and they have a deal - if one of them cooks, the other cleans. Emma had barely made it past measuring the flour and cracking the eggs before Regina had huffed her annoyance and told her to move over and just let her do it after all. Had told her that she'd rather cook than have to clean up the debris field Emma was already starting to leave behind. She's fairly certain the other woman had smirked as she'd walked away to challenge Henry to a pre-breakfast circuit of Mario Kart - which has Regina feeling just a tad like she's been played. But waffles aren't that much work, truth be told, and she doesn't really _mind_ cooking for her family, even after all the time spent in a kitchen during the work week.)

"It doesn't matter," Henry insists. "He should come pick you up, so he can meet me and I can say whether or not I approve."

"And if he doesn't?"

Henry crosses his arms, and declares, "Then I can't give my blessing."

Emma is dying. Shoveling waffle into her mouth and nearly choking as she tries not to laugh outright enough to offend Henry. Regina isn't faring much better internally, but somehow the eye contact she's keeping with Henry is helping her push the amusement below the surface. Still, her lips are tugged into a tight smirk, her eyes bright, and she tells him, "Well, alright then. I'll see if we can meet here instead."

**.::.**

After breakfast, she texts Robin: _Henry knows about our date and is insistent you come and make your intentions clear before he'll let me leave the house. Can you humor him and meet me here at 6 instead? I'm so sorry._

His reply comes within the minute: _No apology necessary. The boy is quite right to defend his mother's honor so fiercely (but he has nothing to worry about, my intentions are pure). See you at six. Address?_

She wants to respond with _Hopefully not *too* pure_, but that seems a bit forward (and she doesn't want to give him ideas she has no intention of following through on), so instead she simply answers, _Thanks,_ and then texts him her address.

When he arrives, five minutes early, she's still in the bathroom, slicking on a coat of red lipstick, so Emma is the one who buzzes him in, and Henry will not allow anyone else to answer the door. Regina is forced to stand there and eavesdrop (admittedly, she's not forced to do anything, because she is the parent and Henry is the child, but she wants him to be okay with all this, with her leaving him on a night when he usually has her all to himself, so she'll let him think he's in charge for just a little while) as he opens the door and blocks it with his skinny body.

"Hello, Henry," she hears Robin greet as she exits the bathroom. She can't see him around the door, and this is Henry's crusade, so she pauses a few feet away and observes. "It's good to see you again."

"Uh huh," Henry says, feigning toughness he can't quite pull off - not with that adorable face of his, not with his high little-kid voice. But he's trying, and it tickles her - even if his manners leave something to be desired.

"Henry, don't be rude," she scolds mildly, and he turns his head and makes a face at her - the most perfect _mom, you're ruining this for me face_ she has ever seen on him. It makes something ache in her chest - he's growing up, finding a little bit of that pre-preteen sass and it pains her. She has an intense wave of nostalgia for the days when he was all giggles and smiles and round cheeks and chubby thighs.

But no matter how much older he is getting, he's still well-raised, so despite how much it surely pains him, he turns back to Robin and at least says, "You too." It's still a ways off from good manners, and she hopes Robin isn't turned off by it - but he seems the sort to roll with the punches. He'd survived her temper, after all, and been mostly unfazed.

As it turns out, he has no problem navigating Henry. He's undeterred by her son's lack of enthusiasm, doesn't miss a beat before saying, "I've brought something for you."

She watches as Henry considers this, tilting his head before asking, "A bribe?"

Emma snorts a laugh from the sofa.

"Not a bribe," Robin tells him. "A gift. Your mum happened to mention you're reading the Harry Potter books right now, and that you've taken quite an interest in England. So I stopped off and bought some British sweets I thought you might like to try."

Well played, she thinks, and the idea that he's gone out of his way to do something for Henry warms her heart.

She hears the rustle of a plastic bag, watches the way Henry's whole body tenses a little bit with excitement. He rocks forward just slightly, more of a quick shift toward the balls of his feet, as if he's going to give in, to take the candy from a near stranger. But he holds himself back, settles onto his heels again and straightens up. "First things first," he declares. "You're here to take my mom out on a date?"

"I am," Robin confirms.

"Are you going somewhere nice?"

"Nice enough," Robin reasons - he'd told her casual dressy. Nicer than jeans, but not too fancy.

"Are you going to have her back by ten? That's when she goes to bed."

"I'm sure that will be up to your mother," Robin tells him. "But I won't keep her late if she needs her sleep."

"And what are your intentions?" It sounds like he's reading lines, Regina thinks, and she wonders if he spent the day mentally running his questions. Rehearsing how he will interrogate this man who's come to date his mother.

"Well, Henry," Robin begins, "I intend to provide your mother with a very pleasant evening, a good meal and some conversation. I intend to listen to her with interest and treat her with the utmost respect, and, if I'm lucky, I hope she'll find me quite charming. And then if all goes well, and if she lets me, I intend to kiss her goodnight, and then return her here to you. Is that alright with you, sir?"

_Sir._ Oh, God, she could kiss him just for that. He's "sir"ed her ten-year-old like the boy is standing on the front porch with a shotgun insisting she be back from prom night by curfew - or else.

Henry eats it up.

"That sounds okay except for the kissing," he tells Robin, and Regina and Emma share a look, amused. "Can we make a deal for no kissing?"

"Alright, that's enough," Regina decides, heading for the door and dropping a hand onto Henry's shoulder. "There will be no deals, and no bargaining - certainly not about whether I'm to be kissed. That is entirely up to me, young man. Now, do you approve or not?"

Henry sighs, and nods, and says, "Fine. You can go out with him," then holds out his hand toward Robin, who is still just out of her view. Robin passes over the bag of candy, and Henry is already rifling through it as he heads for the couch, for Emma, without so much as a backward glance at the man who has brought him gifts.

The door swings open in his wake, but Regina is too caught up with grabbing Henry's shoulder to still his retreat and telling him to thank Robin for the candy to actually look at the man. Henry calls _Thanks, Robin!_ over his shoulder, then shrugs off Regina's hand and scampers over to plunk down next to Emma and upend the bag over the coffee table, candy bars and snack bags spilling out and spreading along the surface. She sincerely hopes Emma doesn't allow him to eat all the spoils tonight.

Regina turns back to Robin, an apology on her lips, "I'm sorry, he's not usually so-" and then she sees his face, gobsmacked is the word she thinks, and she lifts a hand to brush her hair back anxiously, asking, "What?"

He is slightly slack-jawed, his gaze roaming lazily down to her boots and then back up, and Regina feels scrutinized, but not in a bad way. When he gets to her face he gives a small headshake and says simply, "Wow," and "You look _stunning_."

Regina smiles helplessly, and shrugs a shoulder, trying to recall if anyone has ever reacted to the sight of her quite that way. Not that she can remember, and it creates a little curl of satisfaction in her belly, makes her feel a bit more confident. She flirts with him, "I clean up alright, when I have an excuse to wear something other than flour and an apron."

"I've told you," he says, mostly recovering from his moment of shock, smirking at her again that way he does when he is (she's finally realized) flirting with _her_, "I like the flour."

Then he holds up a small bouquet of butter yellow roses, and says, "If I'd known you were going to wear red, I might have chosen a different color-" but Regina shakes her head, and reaches forward to take the blooms.

"They're perfect."

**.::.**

They talk on the way to dinner, while they wait for the subway, and then once it arrives, as he leans against the pole and hovers over her while she sits. She asks if he followed her to The Mines, and he admits that no, he was already there, but it seemed a good opportunity to ask her out. He hadn't wanted to do it with an audience, and on that Friday before (the only time they'd really been alone), she'd been in such a foul mood he'd thought she might throw something at him if he tried. They laugh off her temper - she a bit embarrassed, he straight-up amused, and when she ducks her head slightly, he reaches forward, brushes her hair back himself to keep her face in sight. When she tips her head back up, his fingers brush her cheek, skimming against her skin, and the contact feels electric even though his fingers are cold. He's neglected to wear gloves. The echo of his touch lingers even when his hand falls away, and Regina thinks that this may be dangerous. She _likes_ him, really, really likes him, and if it doesn't go well, she thinks she might be actually, genuinely disappointed (and out a regular paying customer).

After that, it's mostly idle, safe subjects: amusement with Henry's antics, her inquiring how Roland fared after his lunch of treacle tart on Monday, how the weekend has been abnormally chilly even for October. A question or two from her about the restaurant he's chosen for them. More than once, he grins at her like a fool and tells her he's sorry, he's just so distracted by how lovely she looks. Red is her color, he says. She should wear it more often.

They save the real getting-to-know-you conversation for when they're seated at a quiet candle-lit table, orders placed and wine poured (she'd told herself she would only have one glass, but when he suggests sharing a bottle of red, she finds herself saying yes. There's something about him that is trustworthy and kind, and she doesn't think he'll hold it against her or take advantage if she gets a little buzzed).

He lifts his glass to toast, and Regina grips hers as well, tilting it toward his. "To Forbidden Fruit, and the wonderful confections it yields," he says in a way that makes her think she might be one of them, and Regina smiles slyly and clinks, then sips, eyeing him over her wine glass. She's not the only one who cleans up well - he's in a blue button-down that does wonders for his eyes, and dark grey slacks. The line of his beard is neat and crisp, freshly trimmed, and candlelight suits him. Deepens his dimples, makes his skin even warmer. She's had worse things to look at over dinner, that's for sure.

"So," she begins, when her wine is back on the table, one hand twirling the stem absently. She tilts her head and smiles at him. "Robin."

"Regina," he says in kind, relaxing slightly in his chair.

"You know all about where I work, so I think it's only fair you tell me the same." He's smirking at her again, but this time she smirks right back. "Where exactly are you off to every morning at 8:15?"

She knows the basics - The New School. Lit. But she wants to hear it from him, not secondhand from Ruby. He doesn't disappoint.

"I," he begins, setting down his own glass as well, "Am a literary studies professor at The New School, and where I am off to depends upon the day." He frowns then, corrects, "Well, I suppose the where doesn't change, but the why."

"Different classes?" She lifts her wine again, sips. He's chosen well - she's not a sommelier by any means, but she can tell it's good. Goes down smooth and warms her belly. Or maybe that's just the way he's looking at her.

"Mm," he agrees. "Monday, Wednesday, Friday, I teach the Invention of Literature to a bunch of very tired freshman who were never advised against a nine AM class that meets on Fridays." Regina chuckles - her college experience was brief, but she'd made the same mistake. And even worse - it had been bio lab. "Tuesday and Thursday, I teach a course on allegory and symbolism in fable, myth and fairytale."

"Really?" she asks, perking up, "That sounds fascinating. Henry would love it."

She'd been worried they might not have much to talk about - motherhood hasn't left her a whole lot of time for reading anything not aimed at children - but Henry has always loved fairytales, fables, anything that lets his imagination run wild, and his bookshelf holds a collection of worn and well-loved books filled with the stories. She encourages Robin to tell her more, and discussion of the topic carries them through the arrival of their dinner - butternut squash ravioli with brown butter sauce for her, and lasagna for him.

The conversation shifts, eventually, to their kids, but they agree to steer clear of the subject of exes. Tonight is for them, and Robin doesn't want to color it with irritation. She can tell by the way he says it that the ex has ticked him off again, and she's more than happy to save her sob story for another night as well, so she agrees to the moratorium without hesitation. Instead, they talk about school, and from talk of Roland's preschool she can glean at least that he and his mother live up in Connecticut. They talk about Henry's school, too, and she warns him of the coming danger of common core mathematics.

"I don't understand it," she admits helplessly. "I was _good_ at math in school, and I have had to YouTube instructions just to help my kid with his homework - and not because I don't know the answers, only because I have no idea how he's supposed to get to them. He's _ten_, and he has to walk me through. He thinks I suck at math. It's humiliating."

"On the plus side, they say teaching is the best way to learn," he reasons, and Regina makes a face - even though she tells Henry that all the time, as her excuse for why she is making him try to explain such "simple" problems, step by step. "Is it really that different?" Robin asks, because a college lit professor has had no need for elementary math, and he's as clueless as she'd been.

"Robin, I swear to you, they've changed how they teach all of it. Addition. _Addition_ has changed. Don't even get me started on fractions, multiplication, division; it's an entirely new system. Emma has threatened a number of times to go rogue and just teach him how to do it all the right way. But the tests are on the common core method, so we all just have to suffer."

"Tell me about Emma," he requests, switching the subject, and she has a flash of apprehension that wears the name _Graham_, but swallows it down. "You've been roommates for quite some time, if I recall?"

"Five years," Regina answers, nodding, forking up another piece of her rather spectacular ravioli. They need to come back here - _she_ needs to come back here, she corrects, because it's awfully presumptuous to think that they'll be having another date. Even if this is already the best date she's had in ages - maybe ever. It's been easy - the whole night. Conversation flowing without any awkward pauses or suddenly discovered uncomfortable topics. The food is great, the ambience is great, he is great. Even if it doesn't go anywhere, she decides she will be satisfied with having had one exceptional night out. (She won't be, but she tells herself that anyway.)

"What's that like - having a child and a roommate?" he asks, breaking into her thoughts. There's an implication to it that she thinks he doesn't intend - that someone of her age and life experience should be able to live on her own without the financial assistance of another unattached adult sharing her home. It's an argument her mother makes often, and Regina has gotten very good at picking it out. So good, in fact, she thinks she might be seeing it where it isn't. So she ignores it.

"Affordable," she admits with a soft clearing of her throat, and then, "And with Emma, a bit like having two children sometimes. She buys Froot Loops for breakfast, and leaves dishes in the sink, and watches cartoons with Henry, but she's actually... she's great. She's invaluable. I have no idea what I'd do without her, with the hours I keep. I'm out of the house by twenty to five every morning, she gets Henry ready for school every day-"

"Wait," Robin interrupts, setting his fork down with a clatter as his brows shoot up. "Twenty to five? AM?"

"Yes," Regina confirms slowly.

"That's ungodly," he remarks, and she chuckles. Sometimes she agrees, but she's used to it, mostly. "I didn't realize."

"Baked fresh daily," she reminds him - those three words are in turn the bane of her existence, and one of her great sources of pride.

"I really do need to get you home by ten," he says, "Henry wasn't kidding."

"One late night won't kill me," she assures, and she smiles, and he smiles, their eyes locked. Regina feels something in her gut, something pleasant blossoming and taking root, something she hasn't felt in a long, long time.

She watches him take another bite of his dinner, takes a bite of her own, and revels in the feeling of being _dated_.

**.::.**

After dinner, he walks her home - they'd intended to walk only to the subway (because she'd been insistent she could make her own way, it was no trouble, his commute would be shorter from here anyway), but when they get to the station entrance they both linger, neither wants to part yet, and after fifteen minutes of talking he says he'd rather see her all the way home if she doesn't mind.

And so they walk.

They walk and he takes her hand, weaves his bare fingers into her gloved ones and lets them sway between their bodies as they stroll. They talk more of their children, compare stories, and laugh and smile as they the meander the downtown streets until finally they are outside her door.

And then he steps up in front of her, takes her other hand and squeezes her fingers gently in his.

"I have thoroughly enjoyed this evening," he tells her, and she feels warm and lovely despite the increasing cold of the night air.

It's late, nearly eleven, and she should have been in bed an hour ago, but she doesn't mind. She doesn't mind one little bit.

"Me too," she smiles, rubbing her thumbs over his.

"I managed to be charming?" he asks, smirking, and she remembers him telling his intentions to Henry and chuckles softly.

"Definitely," she assures, and then there's a moment - not awkward, but weighted - where they both know what's coming but neither moves.

And then he takes another small step, closes the space between them and lowers his mouth to hers. Lips meet and linger, and Regina's heart stutters a little, pleasantly. He is gentle and unhurried, kisses her once, again, a third time, once more. And then he parts their mouths with a soft exhale and lets his forehead rest against hers.

"When can I see you again?" he asks quietly, and Regina smiles.

"Oh, I'd imagine about 8:15 tomorrow morning," she teases into the space between them, and he smirks and then laughs a little at her.

"Alone," he clarifies, and Regina cannot dim her grin. "When can I see you again like this?"

"I don't know," she murmurs, because she wants to say _How does tomorrow sound?_ and that feels overeager.

And then Robin asks, "Would you think me pathetic if I asked to see you again tomorrow night?" and she hears herself laugh softly. Well, at least she's not the only one who's eager. She feels giddy - and she has not felt giddy in a long, long time. But it's nice. Very nice.

Still, Monday is actually no good for her, now that she thinks on it. She cringes carefully, and tells him, "Henry has parent-teacher conferences tomorrow night. But maybe Tuesday?"

"Tuesday it is," he agrees, and then he lifts his hands to tuck her hair behind ears that were aching with chill not too long ago, but either they've gone numb or she's grown warm from his proximity. She watches him flit his gaze over her face - eyes, cheeks, lips and then he is leaning in again, kissing her goodnight, and Regina's fingers find the pockets of his jacket and grip as she returns the kiss. After a few, all-to-brief moments, he is stepping back, and bidding her, "Goodnight, Regina."

She tells him goodnight, releases her hold on his coat, and shifts her purse as she turns to the door. She's fishing out her keys, Robin still lingering behind her, when suddenly he says, "Wait-," and then his hand is on her elbow, and she turns to ask him what's the matter but she never gets the chance.

For a brief moment, she can see the way he is looking at her with a combination of regret and want, but then he steps back into her space, one hand at her elbow, the other landing on her hip as he backs her the two steps to the brick of the building and kisses her again, fiercely this time. He'd been gentlemanly before, soft, but this is something else entirely - insistent and full of promise. Regina's breath catches, her fingers clenching around her keys as she gives a soft moan of surprise. She's pinned between him and the wall, his mouth moving hotly against her own, and Regina opens willingly for him when his tongue licks against the seam of her lips.

His hand slides its way up to the back of her neck, fingers icy against her warm nape, and she shivers before wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, deepening the kiss herself, pressing her front to his. Her willingness feeds him, and Robin groans softly, sucks her bottom lip in a way that makes her toes curl in her boots and then changes the angle of the kiss. She'd felt warm before, and giddy, but now she's burning, low in her belly, heat spreading in places that have been largely untouched for quite some time. He _wants_ her. It is perfectly clear in the way he takes her mouth again and again, tangles his hand into her hair and clutches, tilts his head for a new angle and kisses and kisses some more. He wants her, and she wants him right back, and she will not take him - not now, not tonight, she meant what she said to Emma - but the wanting is a welcome sensation. Regina slides her hands down to grip at his collar, to tug him more tightly against her as her knee shifts to slide against his leg.

For a few heady minutes, they make out like horny teenagers, oblivious to passersby, only vaguely aware of the neighbor who politely lets herself into the door only a foot away from where they're locked together, the neighbor who says nothing, and if they've earned a baleful look, Robin and Regina will never know. Not with eyes squeezed shut, and mouths well-occupied, and her keys jingling where the the ring is looped around her thumb. When they break apart it is with flushed cheeks and gasping breaths and her ankle hooked behind his calf.

"I'm sorry, I -" He leans in and steals another quick kiss from her lips. "I've wanted to kiss you like that for days, and then you showed up tonight with those red lips. I've been waiting all night to do that. Couldn't let you walk away. Still charming, I hope?"

"I'm not complaining," Regina excuses, her voice low and needy. Robin leans in to kiss her again, and she meets him halfway, but it's slower this time. More reminiscent of their first kisses, but with a lot more tongue, and his hands moving up and down her sides now, instead of politely gripping her own.

Her yawn is impulse - and embarrassing, but it only makes Robin chuckle and press his lips to her forehead instead of her mouth. "I've kept you up past your bedtime," he says, and then he's peppering her brow with kisses. Tracing her hairline with them, one, two, three, four, five.

"It was worth it," she assures, tilting her chin up so she can see his face, and then admitting, "But I'm about to turn into a pumpkin."

He snorts softly, his palms stroking around to her back, looping her into a light hug. "We can't have that," he murmurs, but he's leaning in regardless, pressing his mouth to the hinge of her jaw. "I'd best get this princess back to her carriage."

"Technically, it would be the scullery maid back to her servitude, wouldn't it?" she taunts him, but he's mouthing his way along her throat now, slowly, sampling her skin, tightening his hold on her. It makes her voice go breathy and a little weak.

His breath tickles her neck as he says, "That's not a fate I'd like to see for you," and then, "But I suppose, technically, that you're correct. Time to send you off to bed so you can rise at that ungodly hour and go slave away in a kitchen."

"See?" she smirks, her fingers trailing up into his hair now. "Scullery maid after all."

Robin makes his way back up her neck, over her chin, ending with a kiss to her mouth that feels somehow final. It'll be the last one, she knows, so she savors, leans into it for a moment more when he starts to pull back.

"So much more than that," he assures, when she finally allows them to part, and Regina smiles again, can't help it.

This time, when they say goodnight he lets her go, lets her turn her key in the lock and push the door open, and pass through it. She throws him a backward glance through the glass, and a little wave, and then she heads for the stairs.

She's still smiling when she falls asleep.

**.::.**

She misses him on Monday morning - she's on the phone in the office, talking over an order with an anxious bride who wants four dozen mini pies for her wedding instead of a traditional cake. Except now, she thinks she may want a cake after all. Not for everyone, just for her and her new wife to cut, just a small one, can Regina do that, too? How much will it cost? Is this too much hassle? The wedding is in a month, and Regina can recognize the jitters. She's heard them from many a bride before, and likes to think she's good at allaying them while still providing a solution that is not unreasonable for her.

So, 8:15 comes and it goes, and it's nearly 8:45 by the time Regina emerges into the kitchen to find a single red rose resting on the pass-through.

"What's this?" she asks, as Ruby slides the cash register closed and waves goodbye to one of their regulars. Then she rounds on Regina, a knowing glint in her eyes.

"It's from Robin," she says, as Regina grasps the rose and brings it to her nose, half to smell it and half to hide the ridiculous smile on her face. "Who I hear _finally_ asked you out."

Regina pauses at that, lowers the flower, frowns at Ruby. "You knew?"

"Knew what? That he had a big crush on you?" Regina nods, although the words "crush" and "Robin" seem odd together. Ruby scoffs. "Of course I knew. He comes in here every morning and spends half the time at my counter looking past me. I've been telling him to just ask already for like two weeks - he kept saying he was waiting for 'the right time,'" she air-quotes. "Whatever that is. I swear, if he didn't sack up and ask you out soon, I was going to have to find some way to lock you together in the supply closet or something."

Regina wonders, not for the first time, how she could have so completely misread the situation. How she could have not caught that her counter girl and her 8:15 Hot British Guy were slowly maneuvering her into date night. If it hadn't worked out so well in her favor, she might be offended.

As it is, she just rolls her eyes and mutters, "Thankfully, it didn't come to that."

She can't quite sell her usual level of attitude though, not when she's still smiling like a silly schoolgirl.

"So, smitten kitten," Ruby encourages, grinning triumphantly, as if she'd had a hand in all this (and Regina supposes she has, she probably ought to thank her somehow), "Give me all the dirty details."

"There are no dirty details," Regina insists, even though she is immediately assaulted with the memory of his hands on her hips, his mouth urgent against hers, soft against her jaw, warm against her neck.

"None?" Ruby questions, and the look on her face is not doubt, but disappointment. Not at the lack of gossip, but in Regina herself. It's the tortured look of missed opportunities. "Regina, have you seen that man? Not one dirty detail?"

"It was a first date," she excuses, her thumb rubbing lazily up and down along the smooth stem of the rose, tracing a path from thorn to thorn and back again.

Ruby raises one single eyebrow. "Your point?"

_My point is it's none of your business,_ is what she wants to say, because she and Ruby do not gossip about boys. They discuss, occasionally, when it's slow and Ruby is having boy trouble, but they don't gossip.

So she tries to get out of this conversation by reminding, "I'm your boss."

For a moment, Ruby actually looks mildly put-out, and Regina actually feels mildly bad about using that particular tactic. Especially when she asks, "We're not friends, too?" But then her lips curve slyly, and she adds, "Because if not, I totally should've kept the cute British lit professor for myself."

Now it's Regina who scoffs, and she thinks _You're too young for him_, and is maybe more smug than she should be at the thought. So okay, alright, she'll give. Because Ruby may not be a friend, may be an employee, and young, but she has a good heart and if she's been flirting with Robin while he's been checking out Regina for the last month, well, maybe the kid deserves a little gossip.

A little.

"We... kissed," she admits. "And that's as dirty as you're getting - as dirty as it got."

Ruby's grin widens knowingly, her head nodding slowly. "Is he a good kisser? He looks like he'd be a good kisser."

Regina feels her cheeks heat slightly and rolls her eyes again, but with no heat this time. "Yes," she admits, fighting to keep the smile off her face. "He is, in fact, a very good kisser."

The chuckle Ruby lets out is low and satisfied, and then she mutters sassily, "Get it, girl."

Regina is saved from having to respond to that by the ringing of the bell over the door.

**.::.**

They are supposed to meet for dinner at six again on Tuesday - Mexican this time - but he comes wandering in just before one.

She's not expecting him, so she's not looking for him; it's not until she hears his surprised voice that she even knows he's there.

"You serve sandwiches?" he asks Belle, and she laughs softly at him and says that _Yes, we do_.

"Two dozen, every day, from eleven thirty until they're gone," she informs him as Regina scoops pumpkin chocolate chip cookie dough onto a baking sheet and listens.

"The things you miss when you only come by in the morning," he marvels, and then, "Is it always turkey and swiss on croissant?"

"No, she does a few every day. That's just all that's left. We had ham and gruyere earlier, and strawberry banana Nutella, if you can consider that a real sandwich. That's dessert if you ask me."

"I don't care what one might consider it, it sounds delicious," he replies, and Regina chooses that moment to make her eavesdropping known.

"If you ask nicely, you might be able to talk me into making another one," she calls back through the pass-through, and his answering laugh has her smiling.

A moment later, the kitchen door swings open and there he is, grinning at her. He lets it swing shut then leans against the jamb, stuffing his fingers into his pockets, his usual messenger bag slung across his chest. "Hello, beautiful," he greets, and Regina has to look away, back at her batch of cookies to keep him from seeing the way she grins like a complete idiot.

She recovers quickly, taming her grin into a smirk and looking back at him, asking, "Is that supposed to be sweet talk?"

"No," he tells her. "Just a greeting." He cranes his neck, attempting to peer around her at the contents of her baking sheet, but he doesn't move, and she appreciates that. The last thing she needs is a guy she's seen once thinking he can just make himself at home in her kitchen.

She hefts the pan and heads for the oven, as he inquires, "Those look new?"

Regina opens the oven door, slides the tray in and shuts it again before answering.

"New to you," she concedes, heading back to the prep table, and resting her hip against it, despite the way she'd very much like to walk right up to him and kiss him again. Or maybe because of that. "Pumpkin chocolate chip. We make them every year, around Halloween and Thanksgiving. And they're addictive - It's a good thing you asked me out when you did; I'm probably about to gain ten pounds."

"You'd still look good," he assures, and he pushes off the wall, then, and ambles his way over to her. Stops just a foot away and asks, "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you right now?"

"Not at all," Regina tells him, and he leans in, presses a quick peck to her lips, then one more, and then pulls back. Perfectly chaste - how disappointing. But then, they are at work - her work, where she is in charge, and Belle is perched on her stool behind the table, reading and not watching - but Regina is pretty sure she's _not watching_, intently.

"What are you doing here?" she asks him, and then realizes how that sounds and amends, "I've only seen you here later in the day like this twice - with Roland."

He points to the messenger bag. "I have midterms to grade. I thought perhaps I'd take up one of your tables and enjoy some coffee and pastry while I do. That is, if you're not bothered by my being here. I don't presume that one great date means I have run of your life and your shop."

"Good, because you certainly don't," she smirks. "But no, I don't mind. Stay as long as you like. I might even let you taste test those cookies - as long as you order something."

"Never a hardship," he assures, and she smiles, then points to the door.

"Now, shoo," she urges. "You'll waste all your flirting on me this afternoon and have none left for tonight."

Robin laughs at her, then, and promises, "Not going to be a problem, I assure you. And speaking of flirting, I do believe I came back here to sweet talk you into making me that Nutella croissant."

"I thought you said you were just saying hello," she teases, tossing his words back at him with an arched brow.

"To start with," he informs. "I had full intention to flirt my way into your good graces after the hello."

"Ah," she says, and he's still standing close to her, hasn't taken more than one step back since he kissed her. "Well, then. Do your best."

One of his hands lifts, rises to cup her jaw, his thumb tracing over her chin. He drops his voice low, so Belle can't hear, and the pad of his thumb drags over her bottom lip as he says, "These lips have been on my mind for days, did you know that? Even before we kissed, they drove me to distraction. And now, well... After our date, they've been all I can think of. I cannot wait to kiss you again, Regina Mills, but I will. Until tonight, when I have you all to myself, and can snog you good and proper somewhere perhaps a bit more private than here. But in the meantime..." He leans in, kisses her again softly and then murmurs against her lips, "I'm going to go eat one of those turkey sandwiches, and grade these blue books, and hope this qualifies as enough sweet talking that perhaps I might find one of those Nutella croissants available for purchase at some point this afternoon?"

The look he gives her then is sweetly pleading, and entirely unnecessary. His words have made her feel like a mushy little puddle, like a silly little thing, and she's an adult, dammit, (one equally as distracted by thoughts of kissing him again, alone, in private) so she tells herself to pull it together and nods. Tries to play flirty, not overly affected.

"I think that could be arranged," she says sweetly, turning away from him and reaching for a towel to wipe up her prep table before she starts on something new. She throws a look at him over her shoulder and adds, "_If_ you get the hell out of my kitchen," and winks.

Robin chuckles, and obeys.

**.::.**

When she wraps up at 3:30, he's still there. Henry has a play date after school, so she's in no rush. She sheds her apron, reapplies deodorant and tinted lip gloss, then pulls on the thin grey sweater she'd layered over her tee today. Grabs her purse and her coat, and the two plated strawberry banana Nutella croissants she's finally gotten around to making. She carries them out to the table next to where Robin has stacked two piles of blue books, one face-down, the other face-up. Graded and to-be-graded, she guesses.

He is frowning in concentration, working his lower lip absently with his teeth as he reads, and she is starving and thirsty, so she doesn't interrupt him just yet. Sets the plates down, tosses her purse and coat onto the bench seating, and goes back behind the counter, waiting while Belle fixes a latte for the customer she's serving and then moving into her space and fixing herself a chai tea.

Robin is still reading when she gets back, on the last page by the looks of it, and he really is here to work (he's hardly bothered her since he got here), so she leaves him be. Takes a bite of her croissant, a sip of her chai.

"Just another few minutes," he murmurs, eyes still on the page. Regina shakes her head, waves a hand, swallows the bite she'd just taken.

"No rush," she assures him, pulling out her phone, scrolling through her Facebook while she eats. She's halfway through her own croissant before he scribbles a grade into the back cover of the book, circles it, and adds it to the finished pile.

Then he caps his red pen, and takes a deep breath, lets it out before turning in her direction and reaching for the untouched plate across from her. "Hello," he greets with a smile.

Regina sets her phone down, and says hi back. Reaches for her chai again. "How are the midterms going?"

"They're mostly alright, actually," he tells her with some degree of relief. "Not too many students I am absolutely certain have slept through every lecture."

She smirks, sips, watches as he takes a bite of croissant and makes a noise of appreciation as he chews. "Honestly, Regina, I don't know how you do this. This is heaven."

"I can't take much credit for that one," she admits. "I'm only responsible for the croissant, and considering what else is in that, the pastry is really just window dressing."

But Robin shakes his head, says, "No, it's really good," and "Maybe I've been cheating myself by sticking to pies. And those donuts, which are positively criminal."

She grins. "I have to stop making them," she muses and Robin looks positively stricken at the thought. "I eat too many. But they sell well, so I guess I'll just have to learn to exercise some restraint."

He chuckles, but he's too busy eating to respond.

"Belle said you liked the cookies?" she asks, because those she had not hand-delivered. She'd sent two on a plate, set them on the pass-through when they were still warm and finished with what she'd been doing instead of going out to get his reaction firsthand.

She needn't have worried about missing it, because he rolls his eyes blissfully and leans back against the bench admitting, "You're right. They're addictive. I bought six more."

A laugh spills out of Regina before she can stop it. He did not. "You did not," she accuses playfully, and he nods, points to his bag.

"I did, they're in my bag. I'm trying very hard to save them for later, and not eat them all right now. If you hadn't come out with this croissant, I might have caved after that last test booklet."

"Unbelievable," she chuckles almost to herself, shaking her head and saying to him, "At least you don't think you get everything for free now that you've taken me on one good date."

"I wouldn't think it after five good dates," he swears. "This is your livelihood; I've no interest in taking money from your pocket."

Attractive and considerate of her bottom line. How did she get so lucky?

"Thank you," she says, taking the last bite of her own croissant.

He's looking at her now, eyeing, considering. She's chewing, unable to question him before he suggests, "I know we're supposed to meet tonight, but what if we just went now? We could walk a bit, maybe grab a slice instead of dinner. If you haven't ruined your appetite, of course."

"I'm starving," she scoffs, admitting, "I could eat two more of these right now." She pushes back the few inevitably escaping strands of her ponytail, wishing it was just an inch longer already and would all stay tied back properly. "But I had plans to go home, and shower, and be presentable for dinner."

Robin makes a show of looking her up and down, gaze wandering from her face, over her sweater, down to her faded jeans and back up. "I think you look perfectly presentable," he tells her, and his voice is just a little lower than it was before. Intentional, she wonders? Then he teases, "You're not even wearing any flour today," and Regina glares playfully.

"No, I'm not," she says - because she had checked, had made sure with a quick glance into a reflective surface before she'd tugged off that apron. She nods her chin toward his blue books - there are still quite a few face up. "Don't you have work to finish?"

"Oh, please give me an excuse to take a break for a few hours," he pleads, with the look of a man desperate to be freed of his task. It's that look that breaks her, that makes her decide this man thought her workday attire was attractive enough to ask her to dinner, so he can make do with it for a date if he's so inclined.

Still, she has a caveat: "If we do this now, I need to be back in time to put Henry to bed." Choosing an evening with Robin over an evening with Henry had been an easy decision to make when she was pressed between him and a brick wall, well-kissed and breathless, but she feels a twinge of guilt at every night she isn't there to say goodnight to her son. If she can manage both date and bedtime, all the better.

"Of course," he agrees. "No problem at all," and Regina is struck with a wave of relief that for once, she is dating a parent, for once she is dating someone who understands the importance of bedtime routines, and storytime cuddles.

"Alright, then," she tells him. "We can go now. Just let me clear these plates."

He picks up the last of his croissant and pops it in his mouth rather gracelessly - it was a big bite - nodding as he chews, and reaching to gather up the exam booklets. She grabs their plates, their mugs, busses everything to the counter, and makes sure Belle has everything under control for the rest of the afternoon. By the time she finishes he is packed and ready, bag slung over his shoulder, her coat held open and waiting in his hands.

**.::.**

They get pizza, as promised. Two Boots. And as they sit at one of the tiny tables, they talk about the things they didn't get to on Sunday. Hometowns (Arlington, Virginia for her, just outside London for him), and -oddly enough- sports teams (they agree on the Yankees, debate the merits of American football versus "the game actually played with your feet that the entire rest of the world calls football"), the best places to go for pizza, for empanadas, for margaritas the size of your face that won't cost you an arm and a leg. The more they talk, the more she likes him, the easier it seems to just be there with him.

They order garlic knots - a horrible thing to do on a date, but he points out that if they both get them, they'll both be equally garlicky, so what's the concern? - just to justify their lingering at the table for nearly an hour.

By then, the place is starting to fill up, and people are starting to glare at them and their empty paper plates, so they leave. She offers him gum, he takes it with a smirk, then takes her hand in his as they walk some more. They hadn't discussed it - whether their date would end there or not - they'd both simply started walking, back in the direction they'd come. Eventually, he releases his fingers and slides his arm around her waist instead, hooks his thumb around the button on the back of her peacoat, and she finds she rather likes the feeling of him, warm and solid against her back.

They talk, they never stop talking, and before she knows it they're slowing, and then stopping, and he is leaning against a stoop railing and tugging her close against him. His hands span her back, and for a moment, he just looks at her, just smiles at her, and then he leans in and kisses her. A little heat, a low burn. Nothing too terribly inappropriate for an early evening rendezvous on the street. Regina winds her arms around him, too, locks her wrists behind his waist and kisses back.

She hopes whoever lives here doesn't mind them making out on their stoop, and then she decides, fuck 'em. Who cares. They don't own the sidewalk.

After a few lazy minutes, he pulls back and tilts his head toward the doorway behind them. "This is me," he tells her. Oh. "If I promise to behave myself, would you come inside for a bit?"

"Is this the somewhere more private you'd like to - what did you say? - snog me?" she teases, because it gives her a moment to weigh whether or not going upstairs is something she really wants to do. (Lie - she wants to do it, wants to do a lot of things, but there's a difference between the things you want to do and the things you _should_ do, and that is what she weighs).

"It seems a good place for such things, yes." His palms slide up her back, down, up again as he says, "But I don't want you to feel like I'm asking for more than that."

"Are you?" she asks with a quirk of her brow.

Robin ducks his head down to kiss her lips again, and vows, "Not tonight."

**.::.**

So that is how she finds herself in Robin Locksley's apartment - more accurately Robin Locksley's lap - early on a Tuesday night. His place is smaller than hers - just a one-bedroom, and she'd been about to ask where Roland sleeps when he stays there when she notices a corner of the living room that has a trunk wedged against the wall, a plastic crate of toys on top. The shelves over there hold the thin multicolored spines of children's books, and there's a long, chaise-esque plush chair that is plenty big for a boy to use as a bed. Right now, it's pulled into the room a little bit, appears to be comfortable seating for guests, but she can tell, she knows: it's Roland's.

The rest of the room is gorgeous, with dark wood and built-ins crammed tightly with books of all colors and sizes and finishes. He has a small TV, a small desk, and a big bay window that looks out onto the street (or it would, if the shades weren't drawn). In front of the window, there is a sofa. Soft, worn leather that looks perfectly at home in the rest of the room, and perfectly suited for a man who teaches literature, who reads, who is intelligent and strong.

That's where they are now, the sofa, his mouth on her throat as she straddles his lap. There's space between them - his back is against the sofa, and her knees are, too, so her rear is halfway down his thighs. Enough distance to torture her with the lack of friction where she's already warm and aching from the way he's been kissing her. His palms are skimming her back, under her shirt, sliding over her skin, but never in any place that would be considered inappropriate. Occasionally they wander to her thighs, down to her knees and back up, or they move up, up and skim over the arms she has wrapped around his shoulders.

When she weaves her fingers into his hair and uses them to tug his head back, to give her access to his neck because turnabout is fair play, he groans and grips her hips. He smells like faded cologne, tastes like salt, and there's a hint of rough stubble under her tongue. She likes it - a lot. She likes _him_ a lot.

Regina is glad they've already agreed to no sex, because this sure as hell feels a lot like foreplay, and she'd hate to have to kill the mood to clarify the boundaries. As it is, it's more than she bargained for, although certainly not more than she'd agreed to. She just hadn't been prepared for how much they would _want_ each other, for how little time they'd actually manage to spend talking once they got into his apartment and shut the door behind them.

Oh, sure, they'd talked for a few minutes, but it hadn't been much more than that before she'd given in to the desire to kiss him again. Had leaned in and been the one to claim _his_ mouth for a change. Hadn't been much longer than that before they'd gone from her sitting next to him with her legs curled up onto the sofa, elbow propped on the back as they traded lazy kisses, to this, to her in his lap, to heavy breathing and spit trails in the wake of tasting tongues and hands insistent against each other.

His palms drag up her back now, then wrap over her shoulders, and he uses them to tug her back a little, until he can look up at her with heavy-lidded, wanting eyes and say, "You are an incredibly sexy woman, I hope you know that."

If she wasn't already flushed and warm from making out with him, Regina would blush. She does manage to eye him somewhat doubtfully and point out, "I'm in jeans and a sweater and I smell like eight hours in a bakery." She doesn't feel particularly sexy, even now, even with what they're doing. Sexual, sure, but sexy? She'd felt sexy on Sunday, in her dress and boots and impractically lacy underwear, but today? Not so much.

"You wear them well," he assures, adding, "And you smell fine." Those hands skim down over her shoulder blades again, then smooth around over her ribs, down her belly, as he tells her, "I quite fancy you, Regina. You could wear a potato sack and still be sexy."

She rolls her eyes at that - it's a stupid line. Beneath him. Not nearly as flattering as he means it to be, "Y'know everyone says that phrase but I don't think it's true," she says, inhaling sharply when his fingers skim under her top and tickle over the skin of her belly. He seems to be taking a moment to just _touch_ her, and she has to admit she likes it. It's been a long time since she's been stroked and petted, and as he runs his fingers in four parallel trails up and around her ribs again, on bare skin this time, then down her spine, she arches and sighs, "Nobody's sexy in a potato sack."

He shrugs, hands weaving around to her front and dragging down her thighs as he reasons, "I'd imagine it would bare quite a bit of leg."

Regina smirks and tips herself forward again, arms resting on his shoulders, nose bumping against his gently. "Mm." She kisses him softly, briefly, then asks in a low, teasing voice. "And are you a leg man, Robin Locksley?"

"For the right legs," he agrees, though not emphatically. He's still coasting his palms over her thighs, though, so she thinks perhaps the right legs are hers. Flatterer. And then he says, "Honestly? I'm more of a breast man. And..." His hands slide around to her rear and squeeze pointedly, his brows quirking upward suggestively.

Regina gives a low chuckle and murmurs against his lips, "T&A, huh?"

"Mm," he hums in confirmation, kissing her mouth again, before making his way toward her jaw. "Both of which you happen to have in quite lovely supply, I might add."

She breathes a thank you, because she's not sure what else to say, and because he's addling her brain a little bit with these little nibbling kisses on the underside of her jaw. God. Who knew that was such a sensitive spot for her? She finds herself murmuring without thinking, "Breast men are cheating."

Robin huffs a laugh, a puff of air blowing against the damp skin he's left in his wake. Regina bites her lip and sighs. "How so?" he questions, and she's having a little trouble keeping her thoughts straight, but she manages to answer him.

"All men like boobs," she points out, tilting her head when he moves down her neck. God, why are they still talking? "It's like saying 'oh, I like pretty faces.' Or chocolate."

He snorts a little against her collar, then laves his tongue there, nips at her collar bone. "Well what's not to like? They're lovely, they're soft, pleasing to touch - for both parties." Regina chuckles softly and winds her fingers through his hair again. "They're quite distracting, really - I suppose that's a downside. It can be difficult to keep one's eyes on appropriate places now and then, when there's cleavage to be seen."

She's not sure entirely what possesses her to do it, but Regina finds herself sitting back and reaching for the hem of her sweater, gripping it and tugging up and off and over her head. The black t-shirt she'd worn today was thin cotton with a deep v-neck and with the bra she has on, she knows she has some pretty decent cleavage. Even more so when the action of pulling her shirt off has tugged the fabric askew, revealing a glimpse of the ice blue lace underneath before she gives a little tug to straighten her top.

True to his word, Robin's gaze is drawn to the gap in the vee as she leans forward to wind her arms around his neck again. She watches as he swallows heavily, feels his hands skim up her ribs again and settle just below her breasts, fingers splayed, thumbs nearly meeting at her sternum.

"Now who's cheating," he murmurs, before leaning in and kissing the hollow of her shoulder, then making his way along the line of the v-neck with warm, lazy kisses. His hands never stray from their nearly neutral territory, but he bunches the fabric of her t-shirt in his fingers and it pulls the material down until the pale lace of her bra peeks back into view. He presses his mouth against her breasts over and over, warm open-mouthed kisses over the swells until her nipples are hard and aching from *lack of stimulation and she's breathing heavily. When he trails the tip of his tongue lightly along the edge of her bra, that's when she loses it.

She groans and pants, "Okay. We're not having sex, because I don't do that on the second date. But." Her hands move to cover his and slide them up until her breasts are in his hands and Robin groans and squeezes. "I'm dying here."

"You're not the only one," he murmurs, and then he shifts his hips down the sofa slightly before adjusting her on his lap until she is - finally - pressed snugly against his erection. She's wet - very wet - and when she rocks her hips against him tentatively it's all slippery friction and his heavy exhale. Exactly what she's needed for quite some time but not been quite bold enough to take. She does it again, and it feels good, very good, so she repeats, repeats. Has no intention of stopping. She's gonna dry hump him on this couch and doesn't feel the least bit bad about it. Certainly not when his hands find her breasts again and cup, and knead, thumbs finding her nipples through the fabric and teasing back and forth over them. It tickles, in the best way. Makes her toes curl, makes her jaw drop open.

They're kissing again, needier than before. More teeth catching her lower lip and biting lightly before licking it to soothe, more tugging his head back to kiss him more deeply, more hot breath mingling, more of everything, and oh, why hasn't she done this since Graham? She'd forgotten - been so busy with work and motherhood and making do with her own hand or that vibrator Emma had gotten her two Christmases ago "as a joke," that she'd forgotten how satisfying it was to enjoy another person's body for a while and let them enjoy yours. And she's enjoying very much, and so is he, if the soft groans he keeps letting out are any indication.

He reaches for the hem of her t-shirt, asking permission with a breathy, "May I?" And Regina nods. It's up and off and over her head in moments and he takes a moment to admire the ice blue lace that covers her breasts before he leans in and tugs one cup to the side, his mouth falling immediately into her dark pink nipple. Regina gasps as he sucks at her, her hips jerking down harder against his, and then he has one hand on the small of her back, other cupping her lace-covered breast, fingers finding the nipple and squeezing, tugging. God, this was a good idea.

Her clit is right over the seam of her jeans, and he is rocking up against her as she moves down against him, and oh, oh, this feels so good. Her thighs feel liquid and warm, her belly trembling every time one of her grinds against him coincides with a sharp pull from his lips. He switches breasts, bares the other one with a tug, takes it hungrily into his mouth just like the other, and why is she even wearing the bra at this point? She plants a hand on his chest and pushes him back into the sofa, sits up slightly, and he looks up at her with a dazed frown. Those blue eyes a little hazy with lust. He opens his mouth to ask her why she's stopped, but she answers without words, reaching back behind her and easily unhooking her bra, tossing it to the cushion beside them.

Robin lets out a breath, and moves his hands to palm her breasts again, lazily now, taking his time, his gaze wandering over her torso as if he suddenly has more to see than he had before. He doesn't - her bra hadn't covered much, but she's naked to the waist now, and she supposes that is different, so she lets him look. He swallows, murmurs _beautiful_, and then leans in, pushes her back slightly for better access and Regina locks her fingers behind his neck for purchase. He kisses the underside of her breast, skims his tongue along it, then up to the peak again, swirls it over her nipple, then nips in a way that makes her hips jerk.

But she doesn't have quite the same angle she did a minute ago, isn't bunched quite so firmly against his erection, and she _needs_ that friction, she's burning for it now. So she settles her hands on either side of his jaw, and tips his head up, urges him back against sofa again and kisses him. His hands pick up where his mouth left off, and she's got the good friction between her legs again, and his tugging, twisting, teasing against her nipples, and it starts a loop, like feedback, little currents of pleasure zinging from her breasts to her clit and back up and back down, and Regina moans into his mouth, a harsh, needy sound, fuck, she's close - all of a sudden she's close to coming, her breath heavy in and out of her nose as she kisses and kisses him and rocks her hips harder, more urgently, and oh, oh!

She breaks away from him with a gasp on a particularly acute shock of pleasure and his mouth moves to that sensitive place under her jaw and she's saying his name, reedy and anxious. And then there's his voice, warm and low against her ear, a little rough around the edges - he's not unaffected by what they're doing, not in the least. "Are you going to come?" he asks, practically groans, and fuck, that just makes her hotter. She nods frantically, and feels his hips push up harder against her own.

"_Fuck_," she hisses, and she's not usually so vulgar, not really, but _oh god_, she's right on the edge, and her nipples are oversensitive now, the stimulation edged with pain, but it's still looping that current down and up and oh and oh, this is not why she came here with him tonight, but _oh_.

She comes a moment later with a gasping moan and her fingers tight against his shoulders, her hips jerking and stuttering against his. Those strong hands move from her breasts to her hips, grip firmly and help her keep rocking, and it prolongs her release, has her shaking, has pleasure skittering under her skin, has her tipping her head back with a soft cry as she writhes and revels and then finally moves her hands to settle over his and stills.

Robin's forehead is against her shoulder, and it's only as she comes back down that she really becomes aware of how heavily he is actually breathing, of the way he is clutching and releasing her hips rhythmically, his thumbs pressing against her belly. She's just ground herself to orgasm against him, and he hasn't come, but she wagers it wouldn't take much at this point. And it's not really fair - her getting one and him not, especially if he's this wound up.

It's not a hard decision to make - drawing her hands down from his shoulders, between them, and fumbling at his belt. One hand falls to hers, and stills them, his head lifting, eyes quizzical.

"What're you doing?" he asks, genuinely wondering, no accusation. They'd set boundaries, after all, and they weren't the kind that generally encouraged the removal of pants.

"I can keep doing what I was doing," she offers, "But do you really want to come in your pants?" It's a much messier prospect for him than her, after all. He swallows, eyes falling shut for a moment as he shakes his head. "Let me take care of it for you," she offers, lips falling to his forehead, nose nudging his hairline.

He doesn't hesitate to nod, releasing her hand and sliding his up her belly again, eyes open now and trained on her breasts. Regina glances around the room, because coming on his shirt isn't much better than coming in his pants, and she spies a box of tissues on the end table. With a nudge, she urges, "Can you grab those," and as he reaches for them, she manages to get his belt undone the rest of the way, his button open, and when he leans back and drops the box next to his hip, she eases his zipper down. He shifts a little beneath her, enough that she can shove at the waist of his pants, ruck them down a little further on his hips.

Her hand disappears into his jeans, into his boxer briefs, wraps around his cock and eases it out, giving him a lazy stroke root to tip and back down. Robin's head drops back to the sofa with a soft groan, eyes falling shut, and Regina smirks her satisfaction. There's something about having someone in the palm of her hand - in this case literally - that gives her a dark little thrill of power. She strokes again, once more, and then draws her hand away. He pouts, eyes cracking open just in time to watch her spit into her palm and take him in hand again.

"Who wants a dry handjob, right?" she breathes with a wink, and Robin chuckles, and nods, settles in again but leaves his eyes half-open and looks at her breasts, her belly, down to her hand when it begins to pump a bit more enthusiastically. His teeth sink into his bottom lip when she swirls her grip a little, his breath hitching. "Good?" she murmurs softly, and he nods, swallows hard, moves his hands to her thighs and lets them rub slowly, steadily up and down, up and down as she works her hand over him. When she does something particularly nice they squeeze against her, and she uses the action as cues, learns what he likes.

God, he's attractive, she thinks for maybe the billionth time, when he exhales heavily and arches his head back into the sofa, his brows knitting with pleasure for a moment, a low groan spilling from him. She likes his jaw, likes his shoulders, likes his mouth. Likes watching his Adam's apple bob, and his chest rise and fall heavily. His hands are picking up pace against her thighs, the soft noises he's making coming more often. He's getting closer.

She works him a little harder, a little faster, and he grits his jaw and moans, eyes shut tightly, but she's a little too generous on her next downward stroke, and he hisses and winces, gripping her wrist. She releases immediately, even before he manages to breathe, "Careful."

"Sorry," she grimaces, tracing him with her fingertips for a moment, a light touch, soothing she hopes. He's uncut - and so was Graham so it's not as if she has no experience in that area, but handjobs hadn't been all that common of an occurrence during their little tryst, so she's misjudged how roughly she could handle the goods here.

"It's alright," he assures, closing her hand around him again, under his own, and helping her stroke. "Just mind the delicates."

His lips quirk up in a smirk for the briefest of seconds, and she chuckles, leans forward to kiss him. "Got it," she murmurs, lips brushing his as she says, "I may have gotten a little distracted watching you."

"Mm," he moans softly, then teases, "I can't imagine what that must be like," and takes his hand from hers, cupping her breast again. Regina chuckles, arches into his hand ever so slightly.

With her own hand, she tries to find the rhythm she'd had before their momentary mishap, the one he'd liked so much, and it takes her a minute, but soon he's squirming underneath her again, biting his lip again (she'll never be able to see him give that biting little smirk he does again without thinking of this), rocking his hips up into her hand in a shallow counterpoint to her steady pulls.

Then his breaths go deep, his fingers on her thighs again, gripping, and he groans her name, "Regina..." in a way that seems very pointed. She feels an echo of arousal between her own thighs - who knew giving a handjob would get her hot? - as she reaches for the tissues, dropping one down on top of where her hand is still tugging. And just in time, too, because a moment later, he arches up into her with a strangled noise of pleasure, and she feels the warm, slippery mess of his come drip onto her fingers, watches it wet the tissue. She slows her strokes, stills them as he relaxes boneless into the cushions, eyes still shut, panting lightly.

She grabs another tissue and wipes off her fingers, mops him up a little, then leaves them sitting low on his belly next to his softening cock.

"Now," she teases sternly, "If you never call me again after that, I'm gonna be ticked."

Robin snorts, laughs, shakes his head at her and opens his eyes. "Not going to happen," he swears. "I will be seeing you again, for certain."

"Good," she smirks, leaning forward and kissing him softly. "Because I'd hate to have to refuse your daily contributions to my bank account just out of spite."

He laughs again, or is still laughing, really, and lifts his hands up to cup her jaw, draws her into a few more languid, sated kisses. She lingers for a few moments, then sighs, "I should get home soon."

Robin gives her that cheeky smile, the one where he bites his lower lip slightly, and yep, she was right - she immediately sees his face when he's close to coming, and things in her between-the-thighs region throb with want. She's gotta get out of here before she can't bring herself to leave.

"Oh sure," he teases. "Get your orgasm and go." Regina's jaw drops indignantly, but before she can say anything he's chuckling and assuring, "I'm kidding."

Regina smacks his shoulder slightly, does not miss the way he glances down to appreciate how her breasts jiggle at the action.

"I did promise to get you back before bedtime," he concedes, stealing another kiss from her, then easing her back.

"You did," she agrees, reaching for her bra as he tucks himself back into his pants and zips them up.

"Shall I walk you home?" he asks, as she closes hooks and spins the cups back to the front, slides the straps up her arms. Both her shirts are somewhere on the floor; she's going to have to finally remove herself from his lap. Disappointing.

"I can manage," she says - grunts really, as she climbs off him and her knees protest violently at having been bent for so long. God, she's getting old (she's not - she's not even thirty yet - what will her knees be like at 40, she wonders?).

She scoops up her t-shirt and tugs it on as he asks, "Are you sure? It's getting late." His hand finds her arm and skims down from bicep to elbow, his face all kind concern.

"It's not even eight," she points out, because it can't be. They can't have been wrapped up in each other *that long. "I'm a big girl. And besides, the subway's faster. I need to get home to Henry."

He slides off the sofa then, and grabs her sweater, handing it over as he reluctantly agrees, "Alright, but you'll call me when you've made it safely home?"

"I'll text," she compromises, because he is not her keeper, but his concern charms her. "I promise."

He gives her another kiss or two, slides her coat up her arms, buttons it himself despite her insistence that she knows how to work a button, she's a mother after all. And also a grown adult. But he just smirks, and kisses her again, and sends her on her way.

**.::.**

Henry is surprised to see her when she gets home, says, "You said you had another date."

"I did, but we went out earlier, so I could be here to tuck you in," she tells him, and he grins, and hugs her. Regina drops a kiss on the top of his head and tells him to go change for bed.

She showers quickly while he's getting his pajamas on, because she feels filmy and worries she might smell a little like sweat and sex and Robin's cologne. And because it's more comfortable to curl up in his bed in her warm, cozy pajamas than in her jeans.

While he's brushing his teeth, Emma arches a brow at her and taunts, "Had to come home and shower, huh?" Regina takes a second too long to brush her off, and that sets both brows lifting. Impressed. "Hmm. So the second date is an acceptable time to get your groove back, then?"

Regina rolls her eyes, mutters, "It wasn't like that, we didn't have-" she lowers her voice to a hissed whisper when Henry emerges from the bathroom. "-sex. I have to go read to him. Did he do his homework?"

"Yeah," Emma confirms, pointing to the small pile on the table, next to his bookbag. "I'm gonna find out who's responsible for common core, and make them hurt."

Regina makes a face, and agrees, and follows Henry into his bedroom, climbing up into the loft bed after him and maneuvering around the rail until they're both comfortable before cracking open Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets.

If she lets him stay up a little past his usual bedtime so they can fit in the full hour of reading, well, who can blame her?

**.::.**

The rest of the week passes in a blur. Robin still comes in every morning at 8:15, and he still flirts with Ruby, but it sounds different now. Friendly banter, she realizes, that's all it ever was.

They steal glances through the pass-through, but not once does he interrupt her. He texts, though, once or twice a day. _What are you wearing? Flour? Sugar? Chocolate? ;)_ and _Would it be forward of me to admit I'm thinking of kissing you right now?_ and _If I promise to give YOU the handjob next time, will you bake me more of those pumpkin chocolate cookies?_

On Thursday, he leaves her a Gerbera daisy - this one bright red. Ruby tosses it on the pass-through at 8:20, and says, "Y'know, I thought now that he asked you out, he might actually look me in the eye the entire time he ordered. Turns out, it's worse now that you two spend all day having eye sex through the pass-through."

"We are not having eye sex," Regina denies with a glare, grasping the flower.

As she turns her back on Ruby, the phone in her pocket buzzes again. It's Robin.

_Tuesday again, same time?_

Regina smiles, and texts him back.

_Absolutely._


	4. Week Four

His texts die off over the weekend - nothing at all on Saturday, and a lone _Are you busy?_ on Sunday, which Regina gets somewhere between the planetarium and the Hall of Ocean Life during her afternoon with Henry at the Natural History Museum. She texts him back - _About to see the big blue whale with Henry. And then probably the dinosaurs. Why?_ - and he sends her, _Nothing. Not important._ in reply.

Regina doesn't think too much of it. He'd mentioned in passing that he had Roland again this weekend, that maybe they'd stop by for apple cider donuts and pumpkin cookies on Saturday. She'd told him Henry was coming that afternoon to help her and Belle decorate the bakery for Halloween, that they should swing by and join them. They hadn't, but she'd just assumed they'd found something else to do - that is, until Ruby frowns at her halfway through Monday morning and asks, "So, what's up with your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Regina replies automatically, because they've only been on two (spectacular, wonderful) dates, and that does not a boyfriend make. Mutual orgasms notwithstanding.

"Is that why he was all sourpuss this morning?" she asks, and Regina turns away from the flour she was measuring.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"He was grumpy; barely even cracked a smile while he was here," Ruby replies with a shrug. "Robin's never been grumpy."

Regina has to agree with that - Robin is many things (charming, affable, warm...) but he's never been grumpy. She frowns, says, "No, he hasn't," and then, "I haven't talked to him today."

The bell over the door rings, and Ruby turns back to help the customer, so Regina reaches for her phone and pulls up her string of texts with Robin. She should've known, she thinks, as his last missive stares back at her from the screen. He flirts with her constantly, even via text, and there was not one drop of innuendo or teasing in his message from Sunday. It was short, to the point, almost... cold?

Regina feels a twist of anxiety in her gut. He's changed his mind. They've had their two great dates, their little tête-à-tête on his sofa, and their meaningful looks across the pass-through, and somehow, some way, she's managed to make herself undesirable, and he's changed his mind. He's avoiding, or... Or...

_No_, Regina tells herself. And _Stop this_. She's being silly. He could have a million other reasons for being in a bad mood. Still, it eats at her, and for several long minutes she stares at her phone and tries to think of something she can text him that will draw him out, something that might give her a clue as to what is going on.

She settles on, _Sorry to have missed my usual morning dose of dimples. ;) Speaking of dimples, how was your weekend with Roland?_

It seems sufficiently flirty, and neutral territory, and not needy or insecure in the slightest.

When he doesn't answer her quickly, she reminds herself he has class this morning, that he's busy, that it's not her. She busies herself with a batch of chocolate-dipped caramel apples, and then candy corn cupcakes - both Halloween specials this week.

It's nearly lunchtime before he responds: _Plans changed. Didn't get to have him._

Still short, still to the point, but she lets out a breath of relief that makes her feel incredibly guilty. Because if he didn't get to see his son that goes a long way toward explaining his foul mood and resulting terseness.

She replies: _I'm sorry. I know you were looking forward to it. Everything okay?_

_Yes. His mum forgot he had a birthday party to attend._

She's trying to think of something to say in reply - the right thing to say in reply - when her phone buzzes with another text from him: _Still fairly incensed about the whole thing, to be honest. But don't want to unload on you. I'll be fine by tomorrow afternoon. Cannot wait to see your beautiful face again. _

She finds herself smiling, any lingering tension bleeding out of her as she rereads the last sentence - there's no bad blood between them, she's sure of it. But she doesn't like the idea of him stewing in his own anger for the night, not one bit. Maybe she'll swing by - bring him the handful of apple cider donuts she has left.

She tells him, _We all have bad days_, echoing his own words to her after she had been ill-tempered. And then _Looking forward to seeing you too. DIMPLES. ;)_

In the afternoon, she bakes a late batch of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, because they're good sellers, and because she knows Robin likes them. The chips are still soft, the cakey cookies still a little bit warm at the end of the day, as she packs them and a half dozen apple cider donuts into a one of the bakery's paper to-go bags, and heads for his apartment.

**.::.**

The walk to his place is short, but it's long enough to have her confidence wavering. Should she be doing this? Just showing up unannounced? Maybe he _wants_ to be alone with his anger. Maybe his not wanting to trouble her with issues of weekend custody isn't simply politeness or consideration for the boundaries of their new romance. Maybe she's overstepping.

By the time she climbs his stoop, she is feeling less sure about this idea, and more intrusive. Still, she presses the buzzer for 1A, and announces herself when he answers. Robin lets her in, but in the time it takes her to push the door open and walk into the building proper, he has himself situated in the doorway. He's not smiling, and it throws her even more. He almost always has a smile for her, but right now he's nearly frowning, his brow knit.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, but he sounds more genuinely curious than upset.

She holds up the paper bag in her grasp, offers him her best kind smile. "I thought maybe some sweets and a sympathetic ear would help you feel better."

His frown twists to the side, his lips pursing. He looks unsure, bothered. He still has one hand on the door handle - inside the apartment. "I told you I don't want to unload-"

"I don't mind, Robin," she tells him. "Honestly."

He nods slightly at that, then asks, "What about Henry? Shouldn't he be finishing school around now?"

"I asked Emma to get him today," she tells him, still standing outside his doorway and feeling increasingly foolish. They've been on two dates, she reminds herself. Two. She was stupid to come barging into his space, stupid to assume he'd want to see her. This was a mistake. "But I can go; I shouldn't have come-"

He reaches for her then, with more urgency than she'd expected of him. His hand catches hers and grips, as he assures, "No! No, I'm sorry - I'm being -" He shakes his head with a sigh and beckons, "Come in. Please." He smiles at her then, for the first time since she walked in, and tells her, "It's good to see you."

"You're sure?" she asks, because she doesn't want to impose upon him, and she doesn't want to be there if he really doesn't want her to be. And she's not sure, she can't tell, if he's irritated with her or just irritated in general. His smile seems genuine enough, though, and he reaches now for the hand still holding the paper bag of sweets, and squeezes her fingers reassuringly.

"I'm positive," he tells her, and now he looks like himself again, sounds like himself - or rather, like the Robin she's used to. "I just wasn't expecting company, that's all. You surprised me."

Before she has a chance to respond, he hooks a finger over the edge of the paper bag and tugs it slightly, peering curiously at the contents.

"Apple cider donuts and pumpkin chocolate chip cookies," she tells him, and Robin is tugging her through the doorway now with a grateful moan.

"You're a goddess," he tells her, and, "I could kiss you."

Regina smirks, and nods, and this is more like it - the flirting, the compliments. This is familiar.

"You could, you know," she teases, and he grins - actually grins - and it makes her heart flop over in her chest, because she has done this. She has brought this man from grumpy to grin with just her presence and her baked goods, and she feels proud, and satisfied, and pleased with herself.

Robin presses her into the door, reaches a hand over blindly to flip the deadbolt as his lips fall onto hers. He's still on edge, she can feel it in the way he kisses her. He's eager, but restless. He's off-kilter, off his usually smooth game. Regina slips her fingers through the handles of the paper bag and leaves it hanging off her wrist, then grips the belt loops of his jeans and tugs him against her. She lets the hand with the bag linger at his waist, but slides the other around and up his back, rubbing it along his spine in soothing passes, up and down, up and down. After a few minutes, their kisses slow and gentle, and eventually he breaks them off with a sigh, his brow pressed against hers.

"I'm in a really foul mood," he admits to her. "I may not be the best company tonight."

"I can handle it," she assures, tipping her lips back to his for a quick peck, then meeting his eyes. "Tell me. Unload."

Robin steps away with another heavy sigh, slipping the bag from her wrist as he does and carrying it to the kitchen, urging her to follow with a tilt of his head, pulling down a plate once they get there. His kitchen is small, a narrow galley ringed with countertops that leave very little space to maneuver. The fridge is papered with photos of Roland, of the two of them, with drawings obviously done by a child. There are dishes in the sink, a few empty beer bottles lined up next to it. Still, it's mostly clean otherwise. She leans her hip against the counter's edge and watches as he sets two glasses next to the black stoneware plate, then reaches for the bag of sweets again.

"How much do you want to know?" he asks her, and Regina considers, decides _Everything_ sounds like an awfully demanding answer, true as it is.

So she phrases it a different way, offers, "How much would you want to know if it were me?" And before he can be all polite and respectful of her boundaries, she adds, "Not how much would you ask - how much would you want to know?"

Robin stills, glances over at her with a smirk. "So you want all the dirty details, then?"

"As much as you're willing to tell me," she confirms, while he pulls donuts and cookies from the bag and fills the plate with them. One cookie makes it to his mouth; he takes a bite that leaves half the cookie behind, and she reaches over and breaks what's left in half again, pops the morsel into her own mouth.

He's still chewing when he urges her toward the sofa, and she tries not to think about the last time she'd been there, the kisses and the orgasms, because they're supposed to be talking, having a serious conversation about his bad mood, and every time she thinks about last Tuesday she gets that low down tug of arousal that would be entirely inappropriate for the situation at hand.

Once they're settled on the sofa with the plate between them, he begins to tell his story, both of them reaching down now and then to break off pieces of donut, to nab cookies and chew them lazily as they talk.

Regina finds out that he and Marian were married for two years before Roland, and then for the first year and a half of Roland's life. Then had come the separation and eventual divorce - they'd found they were no longer compatible, he'd said carefully, and she notices he does not speak ill of his ex-wife, even if he's not entirely cordial about her. She respects that - or rather, admires the respect with which he speaks of the mother of his child, when she's well aware of the frustration she's causing him at the moment. Marian had moved Roland to New Haven last fall, Robin tells her - to take a teaching post at Yale. And it's hard being away from him, but it's not so far, really. An easy commute, just two hours on Metro North. The hardest part has been agreeing on time - the official custody agreement is every other weekend, but things come up, and sometimes every other weekend becomes one weekend on, then two or three off, and he feels cheated.

She can see how much it bothers him, even if he's trying to speak plainly about it, trying to be civil. It's there in the eyes, the missing his son, the need to be close to his boy, and she feels for him. Deeply. She cannot imagine being away from Henry for an entire month - she thinks she'd die of missing him. He grows so much, every day, before her eyes, sometimes she feels like she's missing him even when he's standing right there in front of her. She can't keep up - this week he hates Brussels sprouts, but next week, he loves them, and she cannot figure out why (_My tastebuds are growing up, Mom_, he tells her and she aches and wants to pile his plate with mac and cheese, and peas, and all the things he insisted upon as a child instead of yucky sprouts, even if she's proud of his growth, of his acceptance of new things). If Henry is that much of a continuous puzzle despite his daily presence, how much must Roland change from visit to visit?

"Her grandmother passed last month, and she took a few weeks of bereavement leave to attend her funeral and visit her family, and took Roland with her - which I was fine with," Robin explains, "because the boy should know his family, and Lord knows he doesn't see much of them, living here in the States." He looks up then, hastily telling her, "She's Brazilian, on her mother's side - much of her family's still down near São Paulo." That explains Roland's looks, she thinks. He takes after Robin in dimples and charm, but not much else. She'd figured he took after his mother, and now she knows where the boy gets those dark eyes. Robin rushes through the rest of his explanation, restless, his irritation bleeding through more and more as he explains where his weekend had gone so quickly downhill.

"So I had him Labor Day, and then not again until the day you met him. She called on Friday afternoon to tell me she'd forgotten about this birthday party for one of his best little friends. The party was Saturday afternoon, which meant by the time he got home, it would be time for dinner and bed, and he'd be overtired from the party so she didn't want him to spend two hours on a train. She said perhaps next weekend instead." She does the mental math - it's been nearly two months for him with just one visit. No wonder he's agitated, breaking a donut into smaller and smaller crumbly pieces, his shoulders tense, his mouth in a deep scowl again.

"I told her I would come get him Sunday, but she said it was pointless for the boy to spend four hours on a train, just to spend half a day in the City with me, which, frankly, I disagree with, considering I'd at least be able to _see_ him for those four hours, and Roland loves riding the train, it's not as if he would _mind_." His donut is a messy, mashed pile of crumbs at this point, and Regina reaches a hand over to circle his wrist, smoothing her thumb along his skin, linking their fingers. She doesn't mind him wasting food, not in the slightest, but she hopes the contact might help him reign in his rapidly rising temper. "I'm sorry," he breaks off with a sigh. "I shouldn't be-"

"Robin," she interrupts, shaking her head because she knows what he's about to say. "I asked."

"I'm just... pissed," he bites with a certain air of finality. "I'm angry with her, and I miss my son."

"You should be pissed," she tells him, squeezing her fingers against his. "It's unfair. Keeping him from you like that."

"She doesn't do it on purpose," he says with a shake of his head, and he sounds certain of that, but it doesn't seem to bring him much solace. "It's not malicious, but I don't think she realizes how hard it is not to see him for so long. She has him every day; I only get him in pieces."

"I can't imagine," Regina sympathizes, reaching between them and grabbing the plate, shifting it carefully to the coffee table. There's only his pulverized donut and half a cookie left on it, and she wants to close the distance between them, wants to be closer to him. She shifts back on the sofa, keeps their hands linked the whole time and stretches her leg out until her calf rests on his knee. His hand falls to it immediately, smoothes up and down over the soft denim of her jeans, her other leg still tucked up beneath her.

"What about Henry? His father..." Robin inquires, switching the subject. Regina lets him, graciously, even though she knows this is a conversation that will lead _her_ down a painful path. It's not a fresh pain, though, not something that gets scraped open again and again like the pain of joint custody and moody exes, so she falls on the sword for him.

"Passed," Regina says, and Robin grimaces and shakes his head, tells her he's so sorry, they can talk about something else. "No, it's fine," she assures with a small smile. "I don't mind talking about him." And she doesn't, truly. She's proud of Daniel, of who he was, even of how he died. She doesn't get many opportunities to talk about him, and Robin seems willing to listen if she's willing to tell, so she elaborates. "Daniel was... my first love. We dated through high school, and then I went off to Vassar and he enlisted. Army. We were in Iraq and Afghanistan, and he wanted to serve his country and do the right thing. I thought he was crazy." She smirks - she's making a point to smile as she talks, to put him at ease, although maybe she needn't bother. He's watching her with interested concern, and while she can still see the simmering anger he's trying to push down, he doesn't seem the least bit uncomfortable with _her_. "But it wasn't my life, it was his. And he had to do what he had to do. I visited him for a weekend of leave toward the end of his AIT, and... Henry... happened," she tries to phrase delicately. Robin smiles a little (it doesn't reach his eyes, but it's something, it's progress), and nods, and _Ah_s. "Ah," she echoes, and then, "He was deployed right around the time I found out I was pregnant, and he insisted that when he got back, we'd get married, but we never got the chance. He died two weeks after Henry was born - never made it home."

"That's awful," Robin tells her, full of sympathy but, she notices appreciatively, not pity. His fingers untangle from hers, his hand moving to her shoulder and settling there, cupping, his thumb rubbing back and forth, up the curve from shoulder to neck and back down.

"It was a long time ago," she says softly, glancing down for a moment, because long time ago or not, it does still hurt. She can still remember the phone call, can still remember looking at Henry, at his tiny fingers, his button nose, his darling toes, and realizing with a crushing, terrible pain that Daniel would never see those things up close and in person. That Henry would never know what it felt like to be held in the strong, capable hands of his father, would have not one single memory of the man who helped bring him into this world. "But yes, I suppose it is. He died a hero, though." She meets Robin's eyes again and says the thing she has used to comfort herself more times than she can count in the last decade, "My son's father was a hero, and Henry will always have that. He's very proud - we both are."

"As you should be," Robin agrees kindly, and Regina feels a tiny flutter of relief. People don't always take kindly to soldiers, to that war, and truth be told she hates it pretty violently herself, but Daniel was a good man, and he fought for the right reasons if not a right war machine, and she won't fault him for that. Even if it cost her family dearly, she won't fault him for that.

"I wonder sometimes, though, if..." She trails off, sighs slightly. She's not sure how to phrase her thoughts - she's unused to talking about this, about Daniel and Henry. It's not something she brings up often with Emma, or her father, and she could never talk about it with her mother even if she wanted to. But she's noticed things over the years, and she finds herself compelled to share. To speak.

"If what," Robin urges, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

"Henry is very into heroes," she explains. "He loves comics, and adventure books, and fairytales. He loves the idea of someone who does the right thing, or saves the day, of people who fight for good, and I wonder sometimes if it's because of Daniel. If it's how Henry… connects?" She frowns. "Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," Robin agrees. "Fairytales, myths, they're all ways that we try to make sense of the world around us. For a little boy who lost his father to war, I can imagine it would be quite a comfort. Imagining him amongst the pantheon of heroes."

"I hope so," Regina admits quietly, thoughtfully. "I've grieved him, I found a way to move forward with my life, but..." Tears prick her eyes, hot and stinging, and Regina hates herself for them, hates that Robin might think she is sitting here crying over another man, because that's not it at all. "My son will never know his father, and it kills me." She rushes through the words, barely above a whisper because she doesn't want her voice to shake, and Robin's hand has stilled against her leg now. Has stilled, but is gripping firmly, the hand on her shoulder doing the same, grounding her like an anchor, and he is looking at her with so much sympathy she has to look away, or she'll work up a good and proper cry.

"Regina…"

She shakes her head and looks back toward him with a watery smile, assuring, "I'm fine. I just don't have many opportunities to talk about Daniel. Henry and I talk about him, he asks questions, but we don't talk about… Henry. About me. I don't want him to feel sad when he thinks of his father, y'know?"

Robin nods sympathetically, tells her, "Of course," and then, "It's a parent's prerogative to shelter our children from our pain. I'd never want Roland to know how difficult it is to be away from him, or how angry I am with Marian. I want him to think we're both..." He scowls, changing track. "I want him to think that his life is as charmed as possible."

"Yes," she breathes, nodding. "Exactly. I want Daniel to be a good thing for him, not something full of regret. I know it's not possible, not entirely, but the last thing I want is for him to think of his father and feel pain."

"You're a good mother," he tells her, with so much sincerity her eyes water again. She tries, she really does, it's her highest aim, to be worthy of her perfect, wonderful son. Does he know, can he know, how much that particular compliment means to her?

It seems he doesn't, because he's clearing his throat softly, and asking, "Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to kiss you right now?" His brow is furrowed slightly, like he feels bad for making the request, but he's an open book, Robin Locksley, and the hands he has laid on her aren't enough comfort for him. His eyes keep moving over her face, like he's searching her, trying to find the right thing to say or do after the revelation of her tortured past.

Regina smiles and chuckles softly, shaking her head and telling him, "No, I think it would be a pretty good distraction, actually. I didn't mean to… make this about me."

"I asked," Robin parrots her words from earlier, and Regina loves him for it. Not loves, she thinks, catching the thought with a double-knock of her heart against her chest. She doesn't love him, she appreciates him. His thoughtfulness, his interest in her, the way he is even now sliding that hand on her shoulder to the back of her neck, cupping there and squeezing gently. "I want to know you, Regina. All of you, even the painful parts."

She takes a deep breath and nods, still thrown by her own thoughts, by having someone in front of her who really wants to take the plunge into her world.

Robin moves closer, leans in toward her and presses a soft kiss to her mouth. It's a kiss meant to soothe, he won't let it heat, keeps parting their lips to turn the exchange into a number of small pecks instead of something deeper. But she doesn't mind; it gives her a moment to rein in her suddenly tumultuous emotions, and if he means to comfort her he's incredibly good at it. His thumb is stroking against the base of her skull, his fingers opening and closing along her nape, and Regina wants to curl up into him and purr. Wants to stay just like this until every painful memory is just that - something she's put behind her, something that cannot touch the contentment of this moment. She sighs softly when his nose brushes hers between a pair of kisses, and she finds herself whispering, "Would it be inappropriate to suggest maybe we stop talking for a while?"

"No," he murmurs, his next kiss a little warmer, lingering a little longer. "I think we've done enough talking for the evening."

Regina sucks in a deeper breath, her nose brushing his cheek as she nods, anticipation curling in her belly. She didn't come here to make out with him, but she can't say the suggestion is an unpleasant one, especially in the face of their heavy conversation. They're both a bit raw tonight, and the idea of sinking into this for a while, into him, his warm kisses and soft touches, is irresistible. Still, she doesn't want to lead him on, so she breathes, "No sex tonight," as she runs her palms up along his arms, to his shoulders, linking her fingers behind his neck.

He pulls back an inch, until they can see each other's faces without strain or blurring, and cups her cheek, meets her gaze with those lovely so-blue eyes. "You'll tell me when you want that to change," he says, thumb coasting over her cheekbone. "Until then, it goes without saying. Alright?"

Regina smiles at that, glad not to have to worry about setting boundaries with him anymore. "Perfect," she agrees, and with that out of the way - for good, now - she uses the hands locked around his neck to tug him forward as she leans back, and they tumble easily down to the soft leather cushions.

Mouths meet, bodies shifting until they're comfortably situated with Robin half atop her, held up by an elbow, his fingers in her hair. One of his knees works its way between hers, a solid, firm weight between her thighs, and she brings her own knee up until her foot is on the sofa, her leg pressed against his. For a while, they only trade kisses, and there's the lingering sweetness of apple cider donuts on his tongue as it moves against her own, unhurried, tasting. A slow sampling of lips and tongue, while his fingertips move in little circles behind her ear.

When the soft, tickling sensation sends a shiver through her, he chases it with kisses, nuzzling along her jaw, and Regina tips her head back to give him better access, remembering how good it felt the other day when he had kissed and nibbled the soft skin there. He moves right past it this time, though, headed for the sensitive spot just behind her ear, and Regina bites her lip in disappointment for half a moment before lifting a hand to the back of his head and tilting her own to bring him back where she wants him. His lips brush her jaw again, his beard tickling her as he murmurs, "What is it?"

Regina swallows and finds her voice, whispers, "Stay there," and he hums quietly and obliges, begins to cover the area in little nipping kisses. He urges her chin back and runs his tongue along the edge of her jaw, then sucks wet kisses back the way he came, and Regina's breath goes deeper, quicker, heat stealing through her. When he works his way to her chin, nips it gently, then heads down the other side of her jaw, Regina's thighs squeeze around his, and Robin presses harder until he's snug against her, another shaky breath spilling from her at the friction. He lingers over her jaw for a while, then heads down her throat, his breath tickling against her skin, his tongue damp and hot, and Regina finds the sides of his shirt and fists her fingers there, her hips rocking tentatively to relieve some of the aching pressure that's beginning to build between her thighs.

"You smell amazing," he mutters against her skin, and she wonders if she tastes like the perfume she'd refreshed before she left the bakery, but if she does, he doesn't complain. Her only response is a soft moan, and another slow grind against his thigh.

It's not until his mouth is on her collar, his hand coasting down from her hair to cup her breast, that she realizes it's been minutes since she's done anything more than lie here and revel. She arches her chest more fully into his palm, nudges his forehead with her chin and sighs, "I should be kissing you..."

There's a huff of breath against her skin that is probably a chuckle from him, and he mutters, "I'm not complaining," and nips gently at her clavicle. "Quite content right here," he assures, and she nods, sighs _Okay_, and he's laughing softly again. Still, as his thumb seeks out her nipple through three layers of thin cotton, she unclenches her fingers from his shirt and starts to run them along his sides, his back, steals beneath his shirt and scratches short nails lightly over his skin, grinning when it earns her a shiver in reaction from him. His thigh moves against her, a slow, dragging rhythm, and she's exhaling hard again, pressing kisses into his hair.

Scant moments pass before his hand moves from her breast to the top button of her shirt, releasing it with a little tug, then working his way down to the next, the next, the one after that, baring her typical thin t-shirt underneath. When he has her shirt open, she uses one hand to nudge his chin up, urging his mouth back to hers for another tongue-filled kiss. He's hard against her hip, now, still grinding languidly against her, and his hand stays busy, finding the hem of her top and tugging it up. It's trapped between her side and his belly, goes up lopsided, one side pulled up to her armpit, the other still stuck between them at her ribcage, but there are worse things in the world than Robin only having access to one breast at the moment. He doesn't let it come between him and his goal, sliding the cup of her plain, nude cotton bra (oh, how she wishes she'd known to wear something a little sexier this morning) to the side and finding her bare nipple with his thumb. He rubs over it, back and forth, once, twice, a few times, their mouths still rending and sewing steadily, and then he grips the hardening peak between thumb and forefinger and squeezes lightly, gives it a gentle, twisting tug, and Regina moans softly into his mouth. He gives her one last kiss, then scoots back down, pushing that other side of her shirt up before planting a line of kisses down her sternum and baring her right breast as well.

As he cups her in his hand again and swirls his tongue over her nipple, she threads her fingers into his hair, scrapes her nails over his scalp, sighs _Robin_. He keeps up the teasing attention, mixes soft licks with gentle sucks and like everything else tonight, it's a slow burn, a low simmer of sensation that has her toes curling, her breath shuddering lightly, but nothing more. His name falls from her lips again, a little more pleading this time, and she grips her fingers in his hair, gives it a little tug. She needs more, needs something harder, something more - _oh_.

Robin gives her nipple a hard suck, lets his teeth scrape lightly as he pulls back and Regina's hips jerk at the unexpected shift in sensation. She hisses _yes_, and _like that,_ and Robin does it again, more, over and over, then switches to the other nipple and repeats, and within minutes she is writhing between him and the sofa, letting out quiet moans of encouragement, tugging restlessly at his hair. He's shifted down low enough that his thigh is out of range, and there's nothing for her to rub against, nothing to satisfy the heat between her thighs, but her hips rock reflexively regardless, and before too long his hand is trailing down her belly, past her waist, fingers tracing her fly then following the seam of her jeans and rubbing firmly.

Regina's belly tenses, her hips pushing eagerly back against the friction, her jaw dropping to let out a quiet _ah!_ When he keeps up the steady pressure, up and down over her clit through her jeans, his mouth still pulling at her nipple, she grinds her head back into the cushions, swallows down the moans eager to escape her lips, choking his name as pleasure percolates up through her belly. She wants more, wants contact, wants nothing between his hands and her body, so she reaches down and uses her hand to pull his away. He releases her nipple and glances up, then back down when he realizes she's guiding his hand to the button of her jeans. He looks to her again, brows raising in question, double-checking that her intention is as it appears, and she nods encouragingly.

Robin tugs her button free easily, draws the zipper down, then tucks his fingers inside. She's glad she didn't wear skinny jeans today, glad she opted for something a little baggier, something with more room. Regina bites her lip in anticipation and shuts her eyes, so she misses the look on his face when his fingertips find her soaked and sensitive, but she doesn't miss his low moan, or the way he says her name, her breath hitching as he strokes lightly against her clit. She nods, swallows, keeps nodding, her breath deepening, and he rubs her in tight little circles, then up and down, side to side, keeping the pressure light enough to tease, light enough to have her rocking against him.

His mouth crashes against her neck again, sucking kisses there as he touches her, his breath hot against her skin, and she swallows down another moan as her hips hitch at a particularly sharp jolt of sensation.

"Don't hold back," he murmurs into her ear, his voice low and husky. "There's no child here, no roommates, you don't have to be quiet. Let me hear you..." Her heart knocks hard - she's been quiet for as long as she can remember, out of habit, out of necessity. Heavy breathing and throttled moans the most she's willing to let go when she takes a little time for herself behind her locked bedroom door, but he's right - there's nobody here to hear her but him, and he's telling her softly, "I want to hear you..." so she lets the next moan break through, short and quiet, a little thing, but something nonetheless. He's kissing her again, mouth against that sensitive spot on her jaw, fingers pressing harder, quicker, and Regina lets out another moan, this one a little fuller, a little louder.

"That's it," he urges against her skin, an eager, sucking kiss her reward. Then his fingers slip down, lower, through her folds, circling her opening. "Is this okay?" he whispers, and she nods eagerly - it's more than okay, so much more than okay, and she lets out another tight little moan when he slips his middle finger into her, pausing for a moment to pant, "God, I can't wait to be inside you," before drawing it out and doing the same with his ring finger, managing, "You feel amazing," before letting them both ease back inside with a moan, and Regina has honestly never felt sexier than in that moment, with his hand in her pants, his fingers inside her, his lips telling her how badly he wants her. This isn't going to take long.

He moves the fingers in and out in slow, shallow thrusts, only a few before he's drawing them back, out of her pants, and sitting up, and Regina is scowling and looking to him. She only gets out, "Wha-" before he's gripping the waist of her jeans and giving them a little tug further down her hips.

"Just need more room," he tells her, smirking as he settles alongside her again, fingers finding their way back into her pants as she breathes _oh_ and _okay_, her eyes fluttering closed on a soft gasp as he works his fingers into her again, starts to move them a little more easily. It feels good, so good, his palm pressed against her clit, rubbing back and forth over her with every in-and-out of his fingers.

When his fingers curl inside her, she lets go of her inhibition, gives up any effort to be quiet and indulges every shivering wave of pleasure, moaning and whimpering and hissing in breaths, huffing them out. Robin groans and curses quietly into her neck, starts rocking his erection against her hip again as his fingers continue to work their magic.

She lets slip a low, drawn-out moan of his name, pushing her hips against his, then hisses, "More." When he asks _More how?_ she breathes, "Faster," and he ups the pace of his hand slightly, shifts a little and suddenly it's just the right angle, just the right spot to have her letting out an eager cry of pleasure.

"Right there?" he breathes, maintaining, thrusting his fingers into her again and again, and she moans and nods, and manages an ecstatic _uh huh_ and _oh, fu-_ and _Robin_. "God, that's sexy," he groans, kissing her mouth heatedly for a moment until her jaw drops on another moan. His mouth shifts to her throat, then, and he starts pushing his fingers harder into her, the shift in pressure rocking back into his palm every time his fingers slide out, grinding it over her clit with more force, and the noises she's making now are throaty and desperate. "That's it, lovely, let go," he's saying to her, and his voice, it _does_ things to her, that accent, the way it's gone all low and sexy and private since they've been wrapped up in each other. The sound she makes when he rasps, "Let me hear you come," would be embarrassing if it weren't immediately followed by the flood of release, the sweet relief of orgasm making everything go sharp and vivid and acute, his hand moving in her, keeping up its rhythm as she cries out and clutches at his arm, scrapes her nails over the cotton of his sleeve, loud moans spilling freely from her lips as she crests the wave of sensation.

Before she can catch her breath his hand has left her, damp fingers landing against her neck as he kisses her fiercely, rocking against her hip a little more insistently now, his breathing heavy. Regina scoots an inch to the side, and fumbles with his belt, his fly. She uses her hand on him again, works him until he is moaning and squeezing his fingers against her side, his brow sweaty against her shoulder. It doesn't take long, he's hard and hot in her hand, biting that lip again, and when he groans that he's about to come, she tells him to go ahead, lets him spill on her belly with a satisfied hiss of her name.

Breathless mouths find each other, kisses a little sloppy in the afterglow, but neither seems to mind. He slides her bra back into place while his tongue traces her lower lip, skims his fingertips lightly along her arm and back up as Regina clumsily tucks him back into his pants. She doesn't bother with the zipper or the button, not yet, just hooks her finger into the buttonhole and spends a few more minutes enjoying their lazy kisses.

"Thank you," he whispers to her, eventually, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips, before smiling and telling her, "I am quite certainly in a better mood now than I was when you arrived."

Regina chuckles, her nose bumping against his before she teases, "I would hope so, after all that."

They kiss again, lingering over each other's mouths. She should move, she thinks. Should get up, get ready to go home, at the very least, should grab a tissue and wipe the mess off her belly, but as Robin sighs quietly and settles in against her side, she finds she doesn't feel at all like moving. It's more than laziness; there's an afterglow haze that has settled over her, making her feel content and relaxed. Boneless. Affectionate.

Robin's lips brush her shoulder before he asks, "Do you need to go home to Henry, or can you stay a while?" and suddenly staying sounds like the perfect thing. She glances at a clock across the room - it's not even dinner time, not quite, so she wiggles in a little bit closer and tells him she has a while before she has to go. "How long?" he wonders, and she tells him she has about an hour, then yawns so hugely that he grins his amusement and urges her to set the alarm on her phone and, "Lie with me a while. Until you have to leave."

Her brows rise slightly. "You want to take a nap?"

"With you?" he asks, leaning in to kiss her softly again. "Most definitely."

Then, it's Robin who reaches past their heads, plucking a few tissues for her so she can clean off her belly, and after that is done they retrieve the throw pillow that had fallen to the floor at some point. They tug at fabric, fasten buttons, draw zippers up, until they're back in all their clothes, and then he gives her one last kiss before settling in next to her, one arm slung over her belly.

Regina turns her body against his and closes her eyes, enjoying the way his fingers are tracing light, soothing trails over her long sleeves. She's sound asleep in moments.

**.::.**

Tuesday, it pours. Water falls from the sky in sheets, flooding the gutters, overflowing onto the sidewalks, reminding New York City and all its residents that while this hurricane season may not have sent them another Sandy or Irene, it is not without bite. The wind is gusty and cold, sends water sideways, soaking through denim, sluicing down raincoats. The spines of flipped and ruined $5 umbrellas litter the sidewalks, and absolutely nobody is in a good mood.

Business is slow, but those who wander into Forbidden Fruit linger, nurse a second coffee, order another croissant, crowd the tables as they attempt to delay their return to the deluge. Everything smells like ozone and damp.

Regina cancels her date with Robin. It's not worth it, not in this weather, not when she's seen him only yesterday. He agrees without hesitation, says they will reschedule, and she hunkers down at home with Henry, finishes _The Chamber of Secrets_, starts on _The Prisoner of Azkaban_. Reads until her voice is hoarse, and is grateful for every blessed minute.

**.::.**

She is less grateful when Wednesday sees the continuation of the rain.

The wind isn't as biting as the day before, but it is grey and soggy nonetheless. Gloomy. The day's only bright spot is Robin - he enters her kitchen without invitation now, but always lingers at the door until she permits him closer, and she wonders how he knows, how he has figured out that this is _her_ space and she likes it that way. Likes to be Queen of her little castle back here, and hates to have her moat crossed before she's ready. It never takes her long to invite his advance - she coaxes him over with the promise of a bite of cookie dough, gets a sugary kiss for her generosity. He leaves her with a smile that lasts until lunch, and the grey day is powerless to dim it.

She has just tucked Henry into bed, later that night, when her cell phone buzzes.

_The rain has stopped. I must see you immediately,_ Robin has sent her.

Regina frowns, sends him: _Is everything okay?_

_No. I am in crisis - I have not kissed your lovely mouth since this morning._

Regina nearly laughs out loud, settles for a grin, her cheeks flushing pleasantly even without him in the room. _That does sound dire. I just put Henry to bed. Don't buzz when you get here - call._

Less than half an hour later, he is at her door, grinning, and Emma lets him in with a roll of her eyes, announcing, "I'm going to bed. Please try to remember we have thin walls."

"Oh, believe me, I'm well aware," Regina tells her pointedly - she's knocked on the wall more than once when Emma has brought a date home. It's not that it _bothers_ her so much (not that she wants to listen, either, but someone ought to be getting laid even if it's rarely been her. She won't fault Emma for having a good time), but Emma's room shares walls with hers and Henry's, and she doesn't need her boy scarred by that.

When they're alone - as soon as they're alone - Robin presses her against the kitchen counter and kisses her senseless. The rain may have stopped, but the night is still cold, so his nose is, too, where it presses into her cheek. She doesn't mind, not in the slightest, but she shivers when chilly fingers skate across her warm nape.

"We need to get you some gloves," she murmurs against his lips, between kisses. He smirks, mutters _Sorry_, and slides his hands down to her hips as he moves his lips toward her neck. Regina sighs softly, presses against him, torn between wanting to relive their previous adventures on his sofa and hesitation to do that _here_, where there is so little privacy. His teeth nip lightly at the place where her neck meets her shoulder and Regina sucks in a breath, lets it out on a breathy, "How's that crisis?"

"Better." He's muffled by her skin, but she hears him. Smirks. Makes a decision she will probably regret and slides her hand up to his chest, pushes lightly until he takes a step back.

"Good," she tells him, "Because we can't…" She looks down at her hand, up at his lips, away again because his tongue has just peeked out to wet them and that is not helping her resolve in the least. "This can't be like your place, not tonight. Not with Henry here."

It could be, if they went into the bedroom and locked the door, but that would require an amount of willpower she's not sure she has with him anymore, and they've only been dating for two weeks. It seems… imprudent to let him into her bed so soon.

Robin doesn't seem terribly put-out by her putting the brakes on things, though. He just nods, threads his fingers into the hair behind her ears and gives her a last, lingering kiss.

When they part, he takes a single step back, but winds his fingers with hers, asking, "How has your week been?" despite the fact she has seen him (however briefly) every day so far. Regina shrugs, tells him they finished _The Chamber of Secrets_ last night, and he says, with interest, "Oh, did you?"

It's easy after that. They end up on the sofa, with mugs of the warm, spiced cider she'd mulled the night before, and if they spike it with shots of whiskey, well, they're adults, and they're allowed, and it's still damp and chilly outside. They talk in hushed voices, about everything, about nothing, just enjoying each other's company, making up for the date they'd had to pass up the night before. Eventually, when their mugs are nearly empty and the clock is firmly in the last half of the nine o'clock hour, they find themselves wrapped up in each other again. She's not quite in his lap, but her leg is draped across his lap, his thigh tucked underneath hers. Mouths meet languidly, no hurry now, no rush. Heads tilting, adjusting, noses bumping and brushing softly. He stays at her lips, never moves for anything more heated, his hand parked comfortably on her knee. It's sweet, and sleepy, and makes Regina want to curl up against him, press her body to his and purr.

She doesn't get the chance, though.

They are interrupted by a confused, sleepy, "Mom?" and even though their behavior was perfectly chaste, relatively speaking, Regina jerks back like Robin's mouth is a live current, shocking, repellant. Her head whips around to spy Henry padding toward them from the direction of his room, a sleepy scowl on his his face. "What're you doing?"

"I, uh—" She flounders, her mouth opening and closing uselessly before she manages, "I was talking to Robin."

She cannot explain the rush of mortification she feels right now, like she's been caught necking at the movies by her daddy. She supposes it's the fact that Henry has never, not once, seen her kiss a man romantically before, and she is unsure how to react — he is not fooled by her paltry lie.

"No, you weren't," he counters, and then he finally looks to the man in question. Regina glances back, too, to find Robin looking up at Henry with just a hint of guilt, but she can see the undercurrent of amusement in the barely-there curve of his lips. "I thought I said no kissing."

"Henry," Regina scolds, as if she wasn't embarrassed enough about the whole thing.

But Robin waves her off, shakes his head, says, "You're quite right, you did say that. But I assure you, my intentions with your mother are still as true as ever."

Henry's scowl deepens, grows doubtful.

"Henry, you're supposed to be in bed," Regina reminds, and he actually looks angry at that, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So he can keep kissing you?" he questions, and she purses her lips. She's not sure she's handling this well, not sure how to do it better. Robin's hand settles on her bicep, his thumb rubbing back and forth slowly.

"No," she tells Henry carefully. "Because it's late, and you have school in the morning."

That anger goes pouty as he admits, "I'm thirsty," and that she can fix, that is easy, much easier than being caught in a lip lock by her ten-year-old.

Regina moves to rise off the sofa, but Robin tightens his hold on her arm, stills her progress. She looks back at him with a frown, and he tells her, "I'm going to go. Let you get your boy back to bed, and yourself as well."

She's loathe to see him leave, but it's probably for the best - it's almost her bedtime and certainly past Henry's. So Regina nods, and lets Robin press a kiss to her brow before both move from the sofa.

"I'll see you soon," he tells her, and she smiles as she answers, _8:15_. He bids Henry goodnight, retrieves his coat, and is gone.

Regina turns to Henry. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you some water."

He goes with her to the kitchen, but he still looks unhappy, even when she has poured him a cup of cool water and they are sitting next to each other at the kitchen table. She doesn't say anything while he finishes his water, isn't sure quite what to say, quite how to navigate his... jealousy? Possessiveness? Whatever it is…

She's about to ask him if he's having a hard time with her seeing someone, if it's confusing to see a side of her he's not used to, but before she can, he looks at her and asks, "Is Robin your boyfriend?"

Regina is thrown. She wants to say yes, but they haven't really talked about that yet, and while she's losing the trepidation that this all might end on her suddenly, she doesn't truly know where they stand. Not for certain. And she doesn't want to give Henry ideas that are untrue, so she tells him, "I'm… not sure."

His brow knits in confusion. "But you like him?"

"Very, very much," she confirms, stroking her fingers through his hair.

"And he likes you?"

"Yes," she answers, "But it's still very new. We're seeing each other; we haven't discussed anything more than that."

"Is that why you're sneaking around?"

Regina frowns. Sneaking around? "What? Henry, we're not-"

"He's never been here when I'm awake," Henry points out, and she wonders what he must be thinking, what he must have thought when he walked in on them earlier. That she was keeping this from him?

"Sweetheart, he hasn't been here at all, not since he picked me up for our date." He doesn't seem convinced. She shakes her head slightly, smiles softly at him and says, "I'm not sneaking around. I just…" She takes in a breath, lets it out and says, "I haven't wanted to have him here, around you, yet."

"You didn't want him around me?" Henry questions her, sounding alarmed and hurt, and Regina kicks herself - she's just screwing this up all over the place, isn't she?

"No, I-" She takes a breath, centers herself and tries to explain. "I really like him. But I wanted to make sure of how I felt - and how _he_ felt - before you two spent too much time together."

"Why?"

She reaches for him then, pulls him into her lap and loops her arms around his middle. "Because there is nothing more important to me in this whole wide world than you. And I know how much you like Neal, and how when he and Emma take a break it makes you sad, doesn't it? Because you know you might not get to spend time with him anymore?" Henry nods, says, Yeah, and But we still see each other sometimes. "Yes, you do," Regina says, and she has deep affection for the man because of it. "But that's not… typical. Usually when people break up, you don't see them anymore, and I didn't want you to meet Robin, and really like him, and have things not work out. But I certainly wasn't trying to sneak around with him, or hide from you."

"If he's gonna come over after bedtime and kiss you like that, he should be your boyfriend," Henry reasons, and Regina smirks, shakes her head. Her little knight. Thank God he has no idea of the other things she's let Robin do to her without putting a label on things.

"I will talk to him about it," she tells her son with a chuckle. "But you don't have to worry about me with Robin, Henry. He's a very good man. You're going to love him," she whispers to him. "He teaches a class on fairytales and myths and legends."

Henry perks up at that, Regina's smile blooming in response. "He does?"

"Mmhmm," she confirms. "You two can talk each other's ears off - ask him all the questions you want, and I'm sure his answers will be much better than mine."

"Cool," Henry declares, asking, "You don't think he'll mind?"

"Not at all," she promises, giving him a little squeeze. "And we'll spend some time together, soon. All three of us. Okay?"

He nods, then frowns, and adds, "But no kissing. At least not when I'm around."

Regina laughs, shakes her head, and says, "Deal."

It's a sacrifice she's willing to make, for now.

**.::.**

On Thursday afternoon, Regina gets her first bikini wax in years, and remembers exactly why she's stuck with a generous coating of shaving gel and a sharp razor for so long. She doesn't go full Brazilian, because she doesn't want to look like an eight year old, and thank God, because she's not sure she could sit through having every hair in her nether regions unceremoniously yanked out without tearing up like a little girl. Even with the "not nearly as painful" (but noticeably more expensive) hard wax, it still smarts like a bitch, and she is biting her lower lip and exhaling heavily with each rip. She made it through childbirth, she can certainly make it through this.

She leaves tender but silky smooth, neatly trimmed, and reminds herself that the pain is worth weeks of not having to blearily wield a blade near her lady parts while half asleep at four in the morning.

She's feeling bold, so she texts Robin, informing him, _I have a surprise for you._

_Will I like this surprise?_ he answers, and she shoots off a response (_You'd better, or I just let a nice Russian girl torture my bikini line for absolutely no reason_) just before she descends into the subway. This station gets no signal, so she has to wait, smirking to herself, pulse thudding a little more heavily than usual in anticipation of his reply.

It's there waiting for her when she gets above ground again: _I think you need to come see me immediately. For a quality check. I must make sure this nice Russian girl you speak of did no harm to such a precious area_.

Regina grins, shaking her head, and tapping out a reply: _Not a chance. The only thing I'm letting near that area tonight is an ice pack._

_Painful?_

_Are you serious?_

His _You didn't have to do that, you know..._ has her worrying her lower lip, and asking, _Would you rather I hadn't?_

_I'd rather you do whatever makes you comfortable. No need to torture yourself on my account. (That said, I'm very glad I was home when you informed me of this. Might have been embarrassing to receive such information in public.)_

Regina smirks, pleased with herself, and responds: _I've birthed a child. This was nothing. You can "quality check" after our next date. ;)_

Her phone buzzes again almost immediately: _What are you doing tomorrow?_

_Trick-or-treating. The weekend?_

_I'm hoping to have Roland. Will there be a costume?_

_For Henry, yes._

_Not you?_

She reaches her building, has to drop her phone back into her purse to fish out her keys and leaves it there as she climbs the stairs to her apartment, unlocks, lets herself in. Henry and Emma are at the kitchen table, working on homework (Henry is, at least. Emma is reading Janet Evanovich, with her feet up on the empty chair). Neither even looks up when she walks in, but both mutter identical, absent "hey"s. Honestly, sometimes she thinks Henry is the perfect argument for nature vs. nurture - so much of his mannerisms are Emma now, after living with her for so much of his life. Regina doesn't mind, though, not really.

She hangs her coat, finds her cell phone in her purse and tucks it into her pocket (she has a new text from Robin but she doesn't look at it yet - she's turned off the message preview on her phone now that she's started to get texts that she absolutely doesn't want Henry to happen across accidentally), before crossing the apartment and leaning over to kiss the top of Henry's head.

"What are we working on?" she asks, peering past him at his worksheet.

"Math," they intone, miserably, in unison again, and Regina smirks and tugs the chair from under Emma's feet.

Robin can wait on her reply.

**.::.**

"Do you have everything you need for tomorrow?" Regina asks Henry as she stands on the ladder of his bed that night and tugs his covers up to his chin.

"Yep," he tells her with a resolute nod. "I have my cloak, and my glasses, and my wand, and Emma says she'll help me draw my scar on before we go to school."

Regina smiles and leans in, kisses her sweet baby's brow and smoothes his hair. "Good. I set out your clothes, and there will be a special surprise for you in the morning. Don't forget to ask Emma about it."

His eyes light up so quickly and so bright that for a second Regina regrets telling him. He needs to settle down, and sleep, and this is not a very settled look. "A surprise?!" he asks her.

"Yes," she confirms, rubbing her hand over his chest in an attempt to calm him. "But it's a surprise you will only get if you go to sleep now. Okay?"

"Can I have a clue?"

Regina chuckles and shakes her head. "Nope. You'll just have to dream about it."

He sighs and hunkers down into his pillows. "Okay. But it'll be there in the morning?"

Regina squeezes Henry's hand, gives him one more kiss goodnight, and then whispers conspiratorially, "I promise. Goodnight, my prince."

He shuts his eyes as he mumbles goodnight back to her, and Regina steps down the ladder, shuts off his light and closes the door. Henry's walls and ceiling are peppered with chunky, glow-in-the-dark stars, and he has a luminary with all the Hogwarts house crests casting enough of a glow to keep the monsters away through the night. Enough light to allow Emma and Regina the full privacy of Henry's closed bedroom door for things like Orphan Black and reruns of Breaking Bad in the living room.

Tonight, though, it's just Regina - Emma left shortly after she arrived, following a lead - and she's tired already, so she sets the kettle on the stove, flips the heat on under the burner and pulls a packet of nighttime herbal tea from the box in the top left kitchen cupboard. She pulls her monogrammed mug from where it sits in the dish drainer - clean, thankfully, unused this time by Emma, who seems fond of it despite the fact her name in no way starts with R - and drapes the tea bag over the edge before heading to her own bedroom to change into pajamas.

First things first, before she forgets, she pulls open her underwear drawer and lifts the carefully wrapped package out from underneath her skivvies. It's nothing extravagant - just a scarf and hat she had Belle crochet for her in the gold and red of Gryffindor House. Henry's going to flip for it, though, she just knows it (she hopes). She sets it on her dresser for now - at the very least, Emma will be able to find it there if Regina forgets it when she goes out to retrieve her tea.

And now, finally, hours later, she retrieves her phone and checks Robin's messages: _Maybe Catwoman? I think you'd make a fetching Catwoman._ and _Particularly with that red lipstick._

Regina smirks, responds, _I think you just want to see me in pleather,_ and tucks the phone into her pocket before grabbing the package off her dresser and heading back into the other room for her tea. The kettle is just beginning to whistle, so she removes it from the stove and pours the hot water over the tea bag. She bobs the tea bag in the mug a few times, encouraging it to steep, and then her phone vibrates again.

_Caught_, he's responded, with a winky emoji. And then another, _But can you blame me?_

_I don't think it would go with Henry's Harry Potter costume_, she replies, adds a wink herself, so he'll know she's being playful, then she brings the tea back into her bedroom, shutting off the living room lights behind her and finally pulling out her pajamas. She slides under her covers, sips her tea, and trades flirty texts with him until her eyes begin to droop.

**.::.**

When the bell rings over the door at 8:15 on Friday morning, Regina is waiting for him in the kitchen. She eyes him through the pass-through, waits for him to finish chuckling at Ruby's Red Riding Hood costume (a bit too sexy for the workplace if you ask Regina, but it's Halloween, so she's let it slide), and glance back to spy her.

When he does, he grins, bites his lip and heads for the kitchen door without ever placing his order.

She's waiting when he walks in, smirking. In snug black jeans, a tight black tank top, and cheap leopard print cat ears that she bought at the 24-hour drugstore on her way in. Her lips are painted in a fresh coat of scarlet, and she took the time to carefully apply eyeliner this morning - an inky black cat eye that she has worked very hard to maintain. She pouts sexily, gives him her best flirty face, and he responds with that low chuckle, walking right up to her and tugging at the edge of her apron.

"Take this off," he urges, and she shakes her head.

"Not a chance," she rebuffs, but she does move up onto her tip toes to press a quick kiss on his lips, a smudge of red left in her wake. "Do you know how hard it is to keep black clean in this kitchen?" Regina questions him, before adding, "And there's no fooling around in the kitchen. Ever."

Robin groans, insists he'll behave himself, so she rolls her eyes and unties, lifts the apron over her head. He shakes his head at her, runs his palms up and down her sides, and admires.

"Not quite Catwoman," she admits, "but it was the best I could do under the circumstances,"

"It is more than sufficient," Robin assures, stealing another quick kiss from her lips before she insists he go, get to work, he'll be late.

When he's gone she tugs off the ears, shoves them into her purse, and rolls her eyes when Ruby calls her a spoilsport.

The ears make a reappearance that night, when Henry insists she wear them trick-or-treating, and helps her blacken the tip of her nose and draw whiskers on her cheeks for good measure. She considers asking Robin to join them, but decides against it. Henry has been looking forward to his Harry Potter Halloween for weeks and she doesn't want to make it about her, or Robin, or anything other than candy and magic.

**.::.**

Saturday, her day begins just as she believes it's ending.

Regina is on her way out, already in her coat with her purse slung over her shoulder and a bag with a handful of leftover Halloween cookies in her grasp, bidding goodbye to Belle when the bell over the door rings, and in walk Robin and Roland.

Roland is talking animatedly, Robin smiling down, and the sight of them together makes Regina grin hugely. She is happy for him, in a way she maybe doesn't yet have a right to be, but the sight of them together warms her heart, thrills her down to her core.

"Well, look who's here," she greets them cheerily, and Robin is grinning now too, walking toward her as she walks toward him. They meet halfway across the bakery, and Robin leans in and presses a kiss to her lips. It's brief, just a chaste hello, but it still has Roland eyeing them with a frown as Robin lifts the boy to his hip, eye-level with her now. "Roland, you remember Regina?" he asks, and Roland nods.

"Daddy, you kissed her," he whispers loudly, and Robin answers back _I did_, in the same stage whisper. "But why?" Roland asks, wrinkling his nose a little - clearly he's already deduced that kissing girls, even so innocently, is icky business. Boys.

"Because I fancy her," Robin tells him. "And she fancies me. And when a man and a woman like each other the way Regina and I do, they kiss hello."

Roland doesn't look convinced, so Regina takes the opportunity to distract him. "Roland," she says, and he looks at her, "I have something special for you."

Dark eyes light up then, going wide, "You _do?_"

Regina nods encouragingly, says, "I do," and reaches into her bag to pull out two massive sugar cookies, both frosted in a festive orange. "Spider or pumpkin?" she asks him, referring to the designs traced in black on each cookie. Roland practically vibrates with excitement, bouncing on his father's hip before pointing to the spider.

"Spider, please!" he demands as politely as he can manage under the circumstances and Regina slips it out of the cellophane and hands it over.

"You're off for the day, I see?" Robin observes.

Regina nods, smiles at Roland as he munches his cookie. "Henry and I are going to the zoo."

"I love the zoo!" Roland pipes up around a mouthful of cookie, and Regina chuckles.

"I don't know many little boys who don't," she tells him, reaching over to wipe crumbs off his cheek, a mother's habit.

"Bronx or Central Park?" Robin asks, adjusting his hold on Roland.

"Central Park," she says, and then, on a whim, "I don't suppose you want to join us?"

After all, she's promised Henry that he'd get to spend time with Robin, and the zoo, with both boys, seems as good an opportunity as any. Plenty to distract them if it gets awkward, and with both boys there it's more of a play date than a _date_ date. It's perfect - she should have thought of it sooner.

Robin smiles at her, tells her "Of course we would," and Regina gets milk for Roland, coffee for Robin, two buttery croissants to tide them over, and drags them home with her.

She worries, for a moment, that Henry will be upset at the change in plans, but he doesn't mind in the slightest, immediately regaling Robin with questions about fairytales and lore and heros. Regina distracts Roland, asking him about his Halloween (he went as Robin Hood - _Like in the movies!_ he tells her, and then, _And Robin like Daddy, see?_ She tells him that she does see, and holds his hand on the subway, and as they watch the seals being fed, and the polar bear lounging lazily, and the red pandas dashing around their enclosure. The afternoon is chilly; they stay bundled in their coats (Robin has finally found gloves, it seems) and Roland pulls off his floppy knit cap a half dozen times as they move from outside to inside and back again, nearly losing it more than once. They stay until the zoo closes, and leave exhausted, but happy, Henry with a stuffed boa constrictor as long as he is tall (he wears it around his neck on the way home) and Roland with a grey, stuffed monkey (Regina carries that, while Robin carries a dozing Roland), their parents with sore feet and lighter wallets.

The day is a resounding success, as far as Regina is concerned. She was right - Henry adores Robin, and Robin is just as amazing with her son as he is with his own. Finally, she thinks. Finally there is a man in her life that she trusts with her son, who takes an interest, who _wants_ to entertain the boy not only for her sake, but because he genuinely cares. Because he _likes_ talking to him, finds him interesting at only ten years old. Sees him for the bright, brilliant boy that he is. Regina watches them with a warm tightness in her chest, an emotion she can't quite name, but she knows it is good. Knows this is good. This works, this fits, and the surge of affection she feels toward Robin as he laughs at some not-funny-in-the-slightest joke Henry makes for him on the subway is so fierce that it almost frightens her.

This is what she wants, for herself, for _Henry_, this is the thing she thought she'd never have, and she has to look away, has to swallow hard and close her eyes for a moment to beat back a well of grateful tears. For once, Robin is focused on someone other than her, so it goes unnoticed.

As they approach Regina's stop, they're reluctant to part ways.

"I want to show you my books!" Henry insists, turning to his mother, "I told Robin I'd show him my storybooks. Can they come home with us?"

Roland is up from his cat nap, and nods eagerly, says, "Yeah, I wanna play more!" with all the energy of the newly awoken. Robin reasons they need to eat dinner anyway - might as well do it together, so they depart the train together. Regina and Robin let the boys jog ahead of them, racing each other down the street (Henry lets Roland _almost_ win), and weave their fingers together as they walk.

They order pizzas, and turn on _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, and Henry parks himself firmly between his mother and the man he had caught kissing her just a few nights ago. Robin and Regina eye each other over his head with amusement, then shift their attention to the little boy who has claimed the papasan chair in the corner.

"Daddy, I wanna make a fort!" he exclaims, and with his tiny body and the wide, round cushion of the chair, it's not a difficult feat. Something Henry had done time and time again when he was smaller.

"Well, then I suppose you'll need some supplies. What does one need to build a fort?" he asks leadingly, and when Roland exclaims _Blankets!_, he and Regina set about hunting down every spare blanket and pillow in the apartment. Roland makes a nest of the blankets, then buries himself under not one, not two, but _five _spare pillows, and giggles from beneath them for a good five minutes before letting his little face peek through a gap in the pillows to finish watching the movie. Within twenty minutes, he's asleep in his cozy cocoon, and it's not much longer before Henry's eyes are blank and sleepy, too.

Regina ushers him off to bed - no reading time tonight, he's too tired, she insists. When she has him all tucked in, cover to his chin, he rolls toward her and burrows deeper in his blankets, his voice muffled by them as he says, "Mom? I like Robin."

Regina kisses his brow with a grin, and says, though he already knows it, "Me, too."

When she emerges from tucking Henry in, Robin is sitting on the sofa, Roland still ensconced in his chair. He is watching the boy, and Regina doesn't want him to lose a moment of precious time with his son, so she slides carefully onto the sofa on the other side of him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, kissing the side of his neck chastely now that Henry is out of the room and she is no longer bound by her promise to him.

"He's quite the little boy," she tells Robin quietly, feeling his answering chuckle more than hearing it. His hands come up to wrap around her wrists, fingers sliding until they can lace with hers.

"He is," Robin agrees, drawing their joined hands to his lips and dropping kisses on her fingers, her knuckles. "I'm loathe to wake him," he admits with a sigh, and Regina replies automatically, surprising even herself.

"Then don't."

Robin turns to look at her, then, a curious frown on his face. "What do you mean?"

"Stay," she invites softly, glancing down at his lips, then away, back up at his eyes. "It'll be like a sleepover. We'll make breakfast in the morning, you won't have to cart a sleepy little boy home now…"

"A sleepover?" he asks, with a devilish smirk, and Regina chuckles quietly, shakes her head.

"Not that kind," she insists, "Not with the boys here. You, Mr. Locksley, will be sleeping on the sofa."

His mouth tips down into a playful pout. "Kicking me to the sofa already? We've only just begun dating, I can't have been so poorly behaved."

"I'm more worried about the poor behavior that might result from you sleeping anywhere else," she tells him, leaning in and bumping her nose against his playfully. He eases her back, though, frowning.

"Regina, I told you. Nothing you're not comfortable with until you say otherwise."

She feels a momentary twinge of guilt for the implication he'd taken from her words, and moves close enough to whisper in his ear when she points out, "I never said it was _your_ bad behavior I was worried about."

"Oh," he says, knowingly, his head turning to catch hers in a slow, heated kiss. They part after just one, though, and he teases her, "Well, if my virtue is at stake, milady, I suppose I ought to stay here on the sofa after all."

"It's for the best," she insists, with mock seriousness.

They relieve Roland of a blanket and two pillows with the slow, careful movements of experienced parents, adjusting his "fort" until he is well-covered but not suffocatingly so. They talk quietly on the sofa for a little while longer, Regina curled up against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. It's still early, but she's been up since the wee hours, so on her third huge yawn, Robin laughs softly at her and insists she go to bed before he has to build a fort for her, too.

"Thank you," she tells Robin as she kisses him goodnight in her bedroom doorway.

"For what?" he asks, and she shakes her head, and smiles. Everything, all of it, the day, the week, the flirtation and the not-quite-sex, the respect and the care. All of it.

"You know what," Regina insists, and he does, he must, because his smile widens and he leans in to kiss her again.

"Goodnight, Regina."

"Goodnight, Robin."

In minutes, she's pajama-clad and under her covers, lights out. She has a hard time falling asleep that night, but whether it's from his presence on the other side of the door, so close and yet so far, or from the way her cheeks ache from smiling, she can't say.


	5. Week Five

Regina sleeps late on Sunday morning. When she finally wakes just after ten, there are quiet voices coming from the living room, and a strong aroma of brewing coffee. Her first thought is that she could stay right here, with her cheek against the softness of her pillow, the blankets warm and cozy over her, for quite a bit longer and be perfectly content. Her second is that the boys should probably have breakfast - a task that more often than not falls to her. So she sighs, and stretches, and pushes back the covers.

The early November chill has the radiators hissing quietly, but the air outside the bed is still considerably cooler than the cocoon of her blankets, so she pulls on her favorite grey robe, wraps it around her torso and belts it, running her fingers through her hair before emerging into the living room.

The sight that greets her has her smiling instantly.

Robin, Roland and Henry are at the kitchen table, and she can see the metallic glint of diner takeout containers in front of the boys - can't see anything around Robin, whose back is to her. The plastic delivery bags are still open on the countertop. Breakfast, it seems, is already taken care of.

Roland sees her first, looking up and calling, "R'gina! You're up!" before Henry whisper-shouts for him to be less loud because Emma is still sleeping, remember? The little boy looks sheepish and says, "Oops," and Regina's smile widens.

"It's okay," she assures in a loud whisper herself as she walks toward them. "Emma's a heavy sleeper."

Robin turns and smiles at her before sharing a meaningful glance with Henry and rising from his seat. "Good morning," he greets, reaching for her hand.

"You ordered breakfast," she observes, weaving her fingers with his and squeezing in lieu of a kiss - Henry, she has noticed, is watching them intently, and she did promise him no lip-locking in his presence.

"I did. We men need sustenance, after all," he informs her mock-soberly, and then his fingers pulse against hers. "And we all agreed it would be best to let the ladies of the household get their beauty rest."

"Mm, how thoughtful of you."

Henry clears his throat pointedly from his end of the table, and Robin chuckles softly, then requests, "May I have a word?"

"Alright," Regina agrees cautiously - what is going on here?

She glances curiously between all three of them before Robin walks her back to the doorway of her bedroom, angling his body to block the view of the boys at the table, both of whom are watching with interest. Regina isn't sure whether to be amused or worried, settles on asking quietly, "Robin, what's going on?" her face a mask of skeptical humor.

"I had quite the interesting conversation with Henry this morning," he informs her, and it has her brows rising but does nothing to dissuade her confusion. "He asked me quite brusquely if you had talked to me yet about being my girlfriend, you see."

"Oh, God," Regina groans quietly, one hand coming up to her face as her head tips down in mortification.

But Robin will have none of it, his fingers circling her wrist gently and drawing her hand away, up to his lips, where he kisses the knuckles lightly. "The boy does have a point," Robin tells her, and she looks up then to meet his own amused gaze. "We've yet to discuss where this is going, and I know it's only been a few dates, but just in case it hasn't been clear to you before now, I've no interest in seeing anyone else. And quite an interest in having you all to myself." Regina sucks in a breath, trying to keep her lips from curving into a smile. He is looking at her earnestly, still holding onto that hand he'd pulled away from her face. And then he asks her, "So, will you be my _girlfriend_, Regina?" and smirks, adding, "I'm afraid I can't kiss you anymore unless you say yes. It's been made quite clear to me that only serious suitors are allowed to continue kissing Henry's mother after so many dates."

Regina loses the battle against the smile then, laughing softly and shaking her head at him. Her heart feels light and giddy, but she can't resist the urge to tease him: "I see. So you're only interested in my kisses, then?"

"On the contrary, lovely," he tells her, the endearment one that falls off his tongue in a way that makes her feel exactly as it says she is. "I'm interested in everything you have to offer." His voice drops low enough to be absolutely certain the boys can't hear when he adds, "Physical and otherwise."

"Well, then," she says, clearing her throat, trying to be serious, but she cannot suppress her grin. "I suppose yes, I will be your girlfriend."

Robin's grin answers her own and he takes a step closer, closes the distance between them and kisses her sweetly. It's a brief thing, just a press of lip to lip (and Regina is glad of that, her mouth tastes stale, she's in dire need of a toothbrush, or coffee), but it still earns twin _Ewwww_s from the boys at the table.

Regina chuckles against Robin's mouth, and he steps back, appeasing the protests of their sons, but not before lifting a hand to cup the back of her head lightly while he plants a soft smooch on her brow. His beard tickles her skin as he asks her, "And how is it that you are so beautiful first thing in the morning?" and Regina scoffs softly. Honestly. He's too much — it's too early for her to have to bear the full brunt of his flirting. _Stop it_, she chides, without heat, and he grins and insists, "Must be magic."

"Monthly juice cleanse," Regina teases, before rolling her eyes and pushing at his chest, shaking her head at him and walking past, away from the door, toward the boys in the kitchen. Henry is now shoveling in home fries like it's his job, Roland watching her and his father with a wrinkled nose. "I don't suppose you thought to order me anything?" she asks, once Robin has followed closely enough behind for her not to have to raise her voice and risk waking Emma. She doesn't miss the way her son looks up at her _boyfriend_ with questioning brows and then a nod of satisfaction.

"I did," Robin confirms, a hand on her back needlessly guiding her toward the bags on the counter. One of them is not empty, she discovers. "Henry wanted to order you eggs Benedict, as he says they're your favorite, but I was a bit concerned they might not hold up well if they got cold."

She pulls out her brunch - challah French toast, two over-easy eggs, and a few strips of bacon. "I'm not complaining," she compliments. His hand is still on the small of her back, thumb rubbing circles there through the layers of her robe and pajamas. Regina presses back into it as subtly as she can, enjoying the feel of him, the dreamy domesticity of waking to breakfast and children and a man who wants all of her. There are words in her head, ridiculous words, words she has no business thinking after so little time together. Words like _love_, and _family_, and _every weekend could be like this_. She tells herself not to be silly, not to jump the gun, not to think that way, and busies herself with reaching for a coffee mug.

Her favorite is missing, she notices, mouth drawing into a scowl until she spies it on the table next to Robin's place. _At least he has the right initial_, she thinks, choosing instead the round, squat jack-o-lantern mug she'll be packing up later today with the rest of the Halloween decorations.

"Papa said we could share your syrup. They forgot ours," Roland tells her from the table, his mouth half-full with what she can now see to be pancakes. Henry has what looks like the remains of a very cheesy omelette (no surprise there), and Robin's tray is already empty save for a single strip of bacon that has a generous bite taken out of it.

"How dare they," she scoffs, aghast, before smiling at Roland and assuring, "Of course we can share."

Regina pours her coffee from the pot, and that warm hand is still there on her back, but it falls away as she moves to the fridge for milk, Robin returning to the table.

He doesn't sit, though - instead he grabs that last bit of bacon and takes another bite as he carries his container back to the empty takeout bag and discards it there before moving her breakfast to the table. He pops the plastic lid off and retrieves his own coffee as she brings herself and her mug to the chair he's vacated. Even with the table pressed against the wall, they still have seating for four (it's a bit tight, but manageable), but with only Regina, Emma, and Henry in the house on a regular basis, the fourth chair is against the living room wall, piled high with old magazines. Useless to them at this particular moment. Robin doesn't seem to mind, though, simply leans against the kitchen counter and eats his bacon, sips his coffee.

Roland reaches sticky fingers for the bottle of maple syrup on the table, and holds it out toward Regina. "Here, let me help!" he says with such enthusiasm she can't help but grin and slide her container closer to him. He gives her a heavy pour, practically drowning her French toast when she'd normally restrain herself to a drizzle, but he looks up at her so proudly she can't bring herself to complain.

Instead, she gives him a sweet, "Thank you, that was very helpful, Roland," and helps him right the bottle, using her thumb to catch the bead of syrup that drips down the neck.

They finish eating, Emma emerging from her bedroom in a sleepy haze just as the rest of them are clearing the table, and before too long it's time for Roland and Robin to leave - they've had precious little father-son time since the boy's arrival, and only a few hours left before they need to be boarding the train back to Connecticut. Robin kisses Regina sweetly, and murmurs that he'll call. She smirks, bumps her nose affectionately against his, and teases, "You'd better."

When they leave, she finds Henry watching her, arms crossed, so serious she has to stifle a laugh. "I guess I can't complain about the kissing now," he sighs, and Regina smiles affectionately at him, shakes her head.

"No, I'm fairly certain you lost that right when you insisted he make things official," she teases.

"I guess," he reasons, before adding, "Just don't be gross about it, okay?"

Regina gives a sympathetic grin and nods. "Deal."

**.::.**

Regina has no regrets about having waited before situating Robin into her home life - into Henry's life - but she has to admit it's a relief not having to decide who gets her time on a Monday afternoon. A relief not to have to weigh the pleasure of spending time with Robin against the guilt of taking time away from Henry. Robin meets her from work and walks with her to pick Henry up from school, the three of them heading back to Regina's. It's then that Robin gets his first introduction to Common Core curriculum.

"This makes no bloody sense," he mutters from his seat at the table next to her son, and Regina chuckles to herself.

"And you thought I was exaggerating," she teases, as she deftly peels potatoes at the counter. She's making chicken soup – made the stock last night, and is throwing everything together today. It's tradition, the first week of November. The weather starts to turn more toward winter than fall, and suddenly it feels like time for steamy broth, hearty chunks of vegetables and meat, and the warm, homey smell of soup on the stove.

"It's simply that there are easier ways," Robin grumbles, and Regina tells him he's preaching to the choir.

"I thought you were a professor," Henry says with a frown. "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"

Robin frowns, grouses, "Hey, now. I'll have you know I'm quite intelligent - although admittedly math has never been my strongest subject. But the way they're teaching it now appears to be more difficult than it actually needs to be."

"Well, how did they teach you?" Henry asks, and Regina listens as Robin explains the problem to Henry, teaches him how to do it the old fashioned way. She's tempted to ask him not to, tempted to insist that it won't help Henry at all when it comes to the unit test, but she can't bring herself to voice the words. Not when he is so invested in helping Henry learn, and not when her son is listening so intently. She'll help him learn the "proper" way to do the problems later, she tells herself, and hopes he won't be confused.

She never gets the chance to, though, because once Henry has the hang of how the problem actually works, Robin goes back over the Common Core method with him - easier now that Henry has figured out the answer and can work backward. They teach each other, Robin and Henry, and by the time Regina has filled the stock pot with potatoes and carrots, celery and leeks, and nearly all the chicken she'd shredded off the bird last night, his math homework has been conquered.

Regina piles the last little bit of chicken onto a plate, slices a few pieces of bread off the extra loaf she'd made at the bakery today for just this purpose (it's still a little warm at the very center), and brings the plate and a soft stick of butter to the table.

"That has to simmer for a while," she tells them as she slides into the open chair next to Robin, "So here. To tide you over."

She expects Henry to reach immediately for the bread and smear a layer of butter atop it, but instead he is looking aghast at Robin.

"What's wrong?" Regina asks, frowning and nabbing a piece of chicken, popping it into her mouth.

"Did you know there are _British versions_ of the Harry Potter books, Mom?!" he questions her, and Regina looks to Robin who grimaces almost guiltily.

"I did know that, yes," Regina tells him and Henry's jaw drops even further.

"We have the _wrong version!_" he insists. "The British ones were first! And they have other words in them and stuff! They're _different_."

"The story is the same," Regina assures him. "And they don't sell the British version in the States. Because we're not British."

"How about this," Robin suggests, having buttered his own piece of bread and piled a few pieces of chicken onto it, folding the slice into a small sandwich. "_I_ have the British versions at my place, so perhaps the next time I see your mother, I will bring you the proper version of _Azkaban_ and you can pick up where you left off in that one. Will that remedy the situation?"

Henry looks like he's not sure whether to be excited or frown more deeply, but he nods, and says, "Yes, please. Thank you. But do you think you could still read our version tonight, even though it's wrong?"

"Henry, it's not _wrong_," Regina protests. "There are some minor changes, that's all."

"Mom!" he sighs in exasperation, as if she doesn't understand the gravity of the problem (and really, she doesn't, although she can't say she's not amused at how beside himself he is over the thought that his favorite books may be missing some slang terms he won't even understand).

"Yes," Robin assures Henry - his mouth finally free after swallowing the bite he'd taken as Henry was asking his question. "After dinner, I'll read to you from your version."

Regina feels a warm flutter in her chest, and smiles at him. "You're going to read to him?" she asks.

Robin smiles back and says, "He's quite insistent that I do."

"Because of his accent!" Henry explains to her, catching her up on the moments of conversation she'd apparently missed while preparing their snack. "It'll sound better when he reads it."

"I see." Regina nods, knowingly - she's rather fond of the accent, too. Although her fondness is likely quite a bit different from her son's. "In the meantime, what homework do we still have to finish, young man? It can't just be math."

Henry sighs, reaches for his bookbag and pulls out the week's spelling words.

**.::.**

They eat dinner, and Robin compliments her cooking, Regina teasing him that she can, in fact, cook things other than pies, and scones, and croissants. Maybe she'll make him dinner one night, she says, and he tells her he'd like that very much. They smile at each other like idiots, and Henry tells them to stop being gross. Regina laughs, shakes her head, turns her attention back to her soup.

And then after, when they've finished eating, as Regina is clearing bowls and moving the soup from the pot into a collection of carefully portioned tupperwares, Robin and Henry find their way to the sofa and the hallowed halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She'd intended to clean up quickly, to join them on the sofa, but she cannot bring herself to interrupt the magic as Robin's accent lilts and moves over words the way she never can. He's a born storyteller, lives for literature, and he makes Henry giggle by doing different voices for each character, sometimes a bit dramatic and over the top, but somehow right. Perfect. She lingers in the kitchen, runs the faucet quietly enough to hear him, scrubs bowls and pots and glasses. Retreats into Emma's room for a brief moment to collect the stray cups she knows she will find there. Anything to keep her in eavesdropping range a while longer.

He reads to Henry the way she imagines he reads to Roland - no hesitation and no shame, sharing this story, this book, as fully as he can, and it doesn't surprise her as much as she thinks it should that when she finally joins in them in the living room, Henry is curled up against the back cushions of the sofa, not leaning against Robin but close. Close enough he can peer over his shoulder and read along. Regina settles onto the cushion opposite, taking her place on Robin's other side. She sits a little closer than Henry - her forehead against Robin's shoulder - and they stay there like that, the three of them, for several chapters, until Regina sneaks a glance at Henry and realizes he's sound asleep.

She settles a hand on Robin's wrist and squeezes, nodding in Henry's direction. Robin follows her gaze and stops reading, smirking when he sees Henry's sleeping form. He slips their bookmark between the pages and lets the book rest in his lap. "Isn't it a bit early for bedtime?" he asks Regina, keeping his voice low.

"Mm. It is," she agrees, nearly whispering herself - on a normal night, they'd only just be settling down to start reading, if even that. "But we read every night before bed. I think it's Pavlovian at this point. Read long enough in the evening, and he'll conk out."

Robin chuckles softly, then leans over and kisses her, something they've both resisted the urge to indulge in for most of the night. He lingers for a moment, another kiss, one more, then leans back. "Should we carry him to bed, then?" he asks, and Regina shakes her head.

"No, he has a loft bed - it's impossible to get him into it without waking him." And she doesn't want to wake him, not really, not now. Emma won't be home for a while yet, and Henry's out cold. The selfish part of her wants to take advantage of their temporary privacy. "We can just tuck him in here, in a minute. When he's been out a little longer, and won't wake so easily."

Robin nods, and shifts, lifts his arm up and back, around her shoulders. Regina scooches closer and settles her head against his shoulder again, her knees against his thigh. "And then what? Would you like me to go? Let you have the rest of your evening to yourself?"

Regina lifts her head, shakes it no, tips her face up until her lips find the stubble across his jaw. "No, I'd like you to stay," she murmurs quietly, pointedly. She can feel the slight deepening of his breath against her.

"Oh?"

Her lips find his throat, dotting soft kisses there, ones that could almost be considered innocent if she weren't administering them between the words, "Do you have any idea how sexy it is to watch a man read to your child? Because let me tell you, I had no idea until tonight."

"Oh, really?" he teases, his grin evident in his voice. One of his hands moves to her thigh, begins to run up and down the length of it. Not quite wandering high enough to be indecent, not in front of Henry (even if he is asleep), but enough to have her growing warm in anticipation. She glances at the clock. Just a few more minutes, and Henry should be out enough to maneuver without waking him.

"Mm," she confirms, teasing her tongue against his pulse point, feeling him swallow heavily. "I do believe I told you I had a surprise for you, next time we found ourselves alone. Something you wanted to 'quality check.'"

He inhales sharply at that, fingers squeezing briefly against her thigh, and his voice is low for reasons other than the need to be quiet when he murmurs, "Your son is right here. Either you need to stop saying things like that, or I need to leave the room."

Regina chuckles quietly, makes her way back up to his ear and whispers, "Then I think you need to leave the room. Wait for me in the bedroom. I'll be along in a minute."

Robin exhales shakily and nods, turning his head to steal a quick, wet kiss from her before easing himself gingerly off the sofa and heading for her bedroom. Regina stares at the clock until the minute changes over, then reaches for her son, easing him down to the cushions gently, and covering him with a blanket, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, sweetheart," she whispers into his hair. She leaves the light on over the stove, so he won't wake in deep darkness, but shuts off the rest of the kitchen and living room lights before heading to the bedroom. To Robin.

He's there waiting for her on the other side of the door, leaning against her dresser, but not for long. As soon as Regina closes the bedroom door, Robin is pressed against her, kissing her deeply, his fingers threading into her hair and clenching there. For a minute, they just kiss, hot and heady, tongues sliding against each other, breath quickening, teeth nipping, but then his hands skim down, pausing only a moment to cup her breasts before continuing their downward descent until his fingers are toying with the button of her pants. He breaks the kiss then, breathing into the space between them, "May I?"

Regina nods, already panting lightly and ridiculously wet. She wants him to do this to her, wants it desperately, has wanted it for days. She's sure as hell not saying no to him now - and after all, she offered. Robin frees the button, lowers her zipper and then drops to his knees before tugging denim and cotton down in one fluid movement, letting them pool at her feet. She watches for his reaction, and is not disappointed. He swallows hard, lifts his fingers to stroke gently over the skin that's been stripped bare, his eyes dark, breaths deep. When he licks his lips, she almost moans herself. It's been ages since anyone has used their mouth on her the way she knows he's about to, and her belly clenches in anticipation.

"How'd our Russian friend do?" she asks huskily, and Robin's lips curl up in a smirk.

"I'll have to take a closer look," he tells her, equally affected. She expects him to put his mouth between her thighs, then, but he doesn't. Instead he pushes the hem of her top up and plants kisses around her navel.

"She didn't do anything there," Regina points out breathily, and Robin snorts a laugh against her belly.

"Patience, my sweet," he urges, dropping another kiss on her skin. "I've been waiting to do this for weeks; I've no intention of rushing."

"Weeks?" she questions, and she'd frown if she could manage it, but his tongue has just found a ticklish spot she was unaware she had, and all she can do is squirm. "I just got the wax on Thursday."

"Regina," he breathes, glancing up at her. "If you think I haven't wanted to go down on you since before I even asked you to dinner, you're kidding yourself."

Heat flashes through her at his words, and she mutters, "God," and then "Keep going," and Robin returns to his task with a grin. He continues to torture her, continues to drop kisses all over her belly, from hipbone to hipbone, from navel to the neat patch of dark hair she left behind, across the tops of her thighs. Soft, sweet presses of lip, warm, wet swirls of his tongue, alternating, changing his path, until Regina is writhing with anticipation, biting her lip to keep from begging. Her only consolation is that Robin is just as affected by the whole thing as she is - his breath washes against her skin in quick, light pants, hitting the wet patches he's leaving behind, making goosebumps rise, tightening her nipples.

"God, I don't know why I'm so turned on by this," he murmurs quietly to her, fingers stroking the smooth skin, stealing between her thighs to find the same silky-smoothness on her sex, but he doesn't touch her clit, doesn't stroke through her wetness. Regina presses her palms to the door and tilts her head back, squirming as his nose grazes along the join of her hip and thigh, his tongue tracing a parallel line.

The answer to his question comes to her, tumbles out of her mouth before she can stop it: "Because I did it for you," she says, and her voice sounds breathy and wanton even to her.

Robin groans, and presses his forehead to her belly, a few heavy breaths tickling her before she manages to make out his, "Yes, that'd be it," even muffled against her skin as it is. He starts kissing her again, but this time his tongue swirls with each and every kiss, and he is finally, mercifully, headed for her clit. She hopes.

Regina tips her head forward again to watch his progress, the sight of him between her thighs making her even hotter.

"Did you do it so I'd do this?" he asks her, his voice low and husky as he kisses closer and closer to where she's wet and needy, and the anticipation is so acute she can't even find the words to answer him. God, he's so close, she just needs his tongue a half inch down and to the right. "Because you needn't have," he continues, planting another kiss right above her clit, and Regina groans. "All you had to do was ask, lovely," he murmurs, and then his tongue slides just where she needs it, running along her aching clit, flicking lightly at it after he licks and Regina inhales sharply, loudly, her hips jerking toward him.

He chuckles against her, does it again, another slow lick, his tongue dragging torturously across where she is so sensitive, so ready, and she whines softly, threads her fingers into his hair and clutches.

"You're close already, aren't you?" he asks, and she finds that yes, she is. She really, really is.

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since someone has done this to me?" she breathes, and he pulls his head away slightly, frowns up at her.

"I'd prefer not to ponder that, actually."

She trails her nails along his scalp and breathes, "Believe me, you have nothing to be jealous of," making him smirk and tip his mouth back down to her. His palms settle at the hinge of her thighs, thumbs sliding over and spreading her slightly, giving him more direct access to her clit, and she hisses when he starts to lap steadily at the sensitive knot, shivers of pleasure radiating out from where his tongue touches her, spreading down her thighs, up her belly.

One hand slides around to her rear, tries to tip her hips forward a little, but her jeans are still tangled around her ankles, impeding her movement. Impeding his access.

Robin lets out a soft growl of frustration, sits back slightly, and then - much to Regina's dismay - he stands and kisses her. "To bed with you," he mutters against her mouth, and oh, okay, that's much better than stopping. "I need more room."

She nods, steps out of her crumpled jeans and closer to him, presses their torsos flush, winds her arms around his neck. Robin shoves at her shirt, pushing it up, up, up as he steps back, back, back, Regina steering them toward the bed. He has her out of her top and is unhooking her bra as he turns her, the back of her knees hitting the mattress. She has to disentangle from him to free the bra from her arms, and it allows just enough space for him to look down between them and take in the sight of her naked - fully - for the first time.

He moans softly, lip between his teeth in a way that makes her thighs clench. He looks and looks at her, his hands finding her breasts and cupping, thumbs stroking back and forth over her nipples. He doesn't linger long before his hands glide down her belly, gripping her hips for a moment as he murmurs, "You are incredible," and then those fingers are sneaking lower, lower, down, one arm wrapping around her waist as the other hand slips between her thighs, stroking her, toying with her clit. Regina's jaw falls open, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure slithers through her again.

His voice is at her ear a moment later, low and quiet, "Lie down, lovely," he urges. "I haven't finished my, um…" She can hear the smirk in his voice when he finishes with, "Quality check."

Regina chuckles softly, sinking to the mattress and wondering how he can think clearly enough to make jokes with her. But then, she's barely touched him, she realizes - selfish, she thinks. She should do something about that. She reaches for the waist of his pants, but he catches her hands, shakes his head. "No, don't do that. If I let you get your hands on me, I may come over all selfish on you."

"So you want me to be the selfish one, then?" she challenges, lifting her brows at him, none too pleased.

"No, I want to eat you until you come, and then let you have whatever wicked way you'd like with me," he tells her earnestly, and Regina's breath catches in her throat.

"Oh, is that all?" she questions, almost embarrassed at how breathless and eager she sounds.

Robin drops to his knees, reaches for her hips and tugs her right to the edge of the bed, spreading her thighs with his palms, and murmuring, "That's all."

"I suppose that would be okay," she whispers heatedly, feeling his warm breath against the wet skin between her thighs a moment before his mouth falls on her again, his tongue taking up those same, petting licks against her clit for a moment. Regina has to fight not to make any noise (because Henry is just on the other side of a very thin door, and it's early for bedtime, and if he wakes to the sound of her being eaten out by the man he has so recently insisted she make her boyfriend, Regina thinks she may die of embarrassment and never be able to come out of her room, not too mention how traumatic it would be for her son). The effort to be quiet has her squirmy and writhing, breath labored in and out of her nose. And then he pushes her thighs a little higher, grips them in his fingers and holds, and his tongue slips lower, into her, circles and laps at her, and it's a much less acute sensation than the attention to her clit had been, but it _does things_ to her, has her fisting the quilt beneath her, has her belly clenching, has her shoulders grinding into the bedding.

She groans his name, and his tongue retreats, trails up from her entrance to her clit and swirls there again before he teases her, "Yes, my sweet?" His tongue returns to her immediately, a soft sound of pleasure catching in her throat before she can answer.

She swallows down another moan, and tries to find a bit of her sass, finally managing to breathe, "Are you able to do a - a thorough assessment n-now?" Robin chuckles, turns his head and laves his tongue up a soft strip of damp, waxed skin.

"I think I may send a thank-you note," he mutters, and she snickers, drops her arm over her face. How are they talking while he's – _oh _– fucking her with his tongue again, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing light, lazy circles against it. The sensation has Regina whining helplessly, groping blindly for one of her pillows and pulling it over her head, pressing her face into it to muffle the deep, eager moan she lets out. God, this feels so good, so good, and he's pressing harder with his thumb now, tighter, quicker circles, and she feels her hair start to stand on end, her hips rocking against his movement, she's going to come, she's going to _mm!_ she's right on the edge – and then he stops.

Regina shoves the pillow away and glares down at him, her belly rising and falling with her heavy breaths.

"What the hell are you doing?" she whispers demandingly, even as he strokes a fingertip through her wetness, then another.

"This," he tells her cheekily before he slips two fingers into her and bites that lip again, mutters something about how wet she is, and she has to pull the pillow over her face again. Her breath is heaving against the fabric, and his tongue is back on her clit, licking and licking, up and down, matching the rhythm he sets with his fingers and she feels heat travel over her in waves, her thighs and her abs trembling and tensing in anticipation, she's so close, she's so fucking close.

She tips the pillow up just enough to suck in a breath of fresh air and let it out on a plea of, "Suck," and Robin obeys immediately, his lips wrapping around the sensitive nub and pulling rhythmically, and Regina seizes and presses the pillow back down over her face as the orgasm takes her. Her hips buck against him, and his free hand falls across her belly and presses there, holding her in place as he continues to suck at her clit, his fingers keeping up their steady, thumping rhythm inside her. Regina is a master at the silent orgasm, she learned a long time ago how to tamp down the urge to moan and cry out, but she can't keep silent through this, not through the ecstasy gripping her now, and she lets out several desperate, broken moans into the pillow before the pleasure gets to be too much and she's pushing at his head to stop him.

Robin pulls his mouth away from her with one last lingering lick, and Regina lets the pillow fall away, panting heavily, but his fingers don't stop. They slow, switch to a deep, firm in-and-out thrusting that has little jolts of pleasure radiating outward, has her rolling her head into the mattress and arching her back. Without the attention on her clit, it's not overwhelming, just _good_, just _wonderful_, just toe-curlingly _delicious_.

_Oh, God_, she thinks, and she has to keep her lips pressed tight together to keep from moaning it aloud. They should've put Henry to sleep in his bed, should've put half an apartment and another door between them, so Regina wouldn't have to worry about being quiet when Robin was doing _this_. Her fingers fist in the duvet, her breath huffing out through her nose, and for a few minutes, she just revels in the deep pulls of pleasure he's drawing from her, in feeling this _good_, in what this man can do to her with just his fingers, fuck, she's not going to come again, not from this, not without something on her clit, but it feels amazing, she feels amazing.

Her jaw drops on one particularly strong pulse of pleasure, and she lifts her head down to look at him, finds him looking up at her with so much want and need, so much desire, that she almost moans aloud.

"You have no idea how badly I want you right now," he tells her when their eyes meet, voice just a touch away from pleading with her, and Regina finds herself nodding eagerly and reaching for his shoulders. He gets the message: _They're doing this_, and inhales sharply. "Only if you're certain," he assures, but he's already slipping his fingers out of her, already moving up onto the bed. "I know you've wanted to wait."

Regina shakes her head, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a wet, eager kiss. She wants it, too, and they've been on many, many good dates, and he is not going anywhere, and waiting any longer would be pointless. Stupid. Just delaying the inevitable satisfaction of having him inside her.

"I'm positive," she breathes, and then, "There are condoms in the nightstand."

Robin's body presses hers harder into the mattress, his kisses suddenly hot, suddenly passionate, suddenly _more_ than they were before. He bites at her lower lip and groans, then immediately descends on her breasts. He cups them both in his palms, takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks, and Regina lets out an unexpected moan, her hand clapping over her mouth too late to stifle it. He doesn't stop, works her over with lips and teeth and tongue, his other hand on her other breast, shifting until he can grasp her nipple and squeeze.

Regina arches and gasps, forces herself not to moan, her legs wrapping around his waist as her hands move to pull anxiously at the shoulders of his shirt. She needs it off, needs him naked, needs him inside her, needs him to keep doing exactly what he's doing to her breasts because, oh God, is it good. But he doesn't - he stops - just long enough to sit up and pull his shirt off over his head (and that torso, good God, he's well-defined and lovely, a smattering of hair on his chest, abs she wants to run her tongue over, but she just licks her lips and reaches for his pants, kicking herself for never stripping him to the waist earlier).

While she flips his belt open, tugs his zipper down, Robin reaches into his back pocket and fishes out his wallet, tossing it on the bed before shoving his pants and underwear down, stepping out of them. Regina reaches for his cock, and he sucks in a deep breath when she wraps her fingers around him and begins to tug. "God," he murmurs, as her thumb strokes over the tip, and he fumbles slightly as he gropes for his wallet again and frees a condom of his own from its confines.

He rips the foil packet open and Regina lets her hand fall away, her heel running up the back of his thigh as she watches him roll the condom on, and then he tugs her hips back to the edge of the bed and lines up, pushing forward, sinking into her. Regina's lips part, her jaw dropping slightly as he fills her. He's thick, stretching muscles that haven't had much in the way of intrusion in quite some time, but it's not an unpleasant stretch - quite the opposite. Robin's palms run down her thighs until they can grasp her hips, and when he's all the way inside they move to the mattress, slide up along her sides as he leans down over her and takes her mouth in a deep kiss.

They're both breathing heavily already, bellies pressing into each other, and his mouth falls on her jaw, then just behind her ear before he murmurs, "Is this alright?" Regina nods, and winds her legs around his hips again, using them to give him an encouraging squeeze.

"It's more than alright," she moans quietly, moving with him when he gives her a shallow thrust, then another, one more. He plants kisses on her neck, her collar, her shoulder and mutters something that sounds like _So wonderful…_

And then he pushes back up until he's standing again, and hooks his elbows under her knees, deepens his thrusts, puts a little more force into them and Regina gasps and squeezes her eyes shut, her mouth forming an O as the change in angle has him hitting just the right spot to send bursts of pleasure zinging and rolling under her skin. "Like that?" he asks, and she nods, bunches the bedding with her fingertips.

Now she's the one biting her lip, tamping down moans, grimacing with pleasure, and his voice comes to her, strained and tight. "Christ, I can barely look at you," he manages, tightening his hold on her as he gives her a deep thrust that almost has her crying out, her jaw stretching open, the sound caught in her throat at the last, lucky second.

"I won't take long," she gasps as soon as she's recovered, opening her eyes again and smirking at him through her pleasure. And she won't, not if he keeps it up like this, and certainly not when he adjusts one of her legs, guides her foot to brace against his torso and shifts his now-free hand between her thighs. "Look all you want," she chokes as his thumb falls on her clit, rubbing against it as he moves his hips lazily against hers.

Regina grits her teeth and closes her eyes again, her belly clenching, her fingers fisting and opening and fisting again in the blanket. She feels it building, feels her face flushing, feels the heat spreading down from her cheeks over her collar, down to her breasts, and she reaches for the pillow again because she knows she can't be silent much longer.

"No," Robin pleads, never breaking rhythm, "Don't; I want to watch you, I love watching you come."

"I'm - I - mm! - I need to be quiet," she manages, her voice trembling. "Henry," she reminds, his thumb still on her clit, steady and firm, over and over, and every touch pushes her closer to the edge, closer to another orgasm, she can't be quiet much longer, this is torture.

His hand falls away from her then, and he bends over her again, elbows settling alongside her shoulders, his mouth covering hers. He changes the pace suddenly, switches to hard, sharp raps of his hips against hers, pounding against her clit every time, and Regina cries out into his mouth, lets his kiss muffle her as she grips at his ribs. _Oh, fuck_.

She tears her mouth away on a gasp and his fingers find their way into her hair, scoop her head up against his shoulder and she muffles herself there, presses her mouth against him, kisses sloppily over and over as he forces gasp after gasp out of her with the driving rhythm of his cock. He groans her name, murmurs _God_ and _I won't last much–mmm–_ and _come for me, beautiful_, his voice straining more and more with each word, his hips going wilder, harder, until he's rutting against her, fingers fisted in her hair, and she is huffing desperate breaths against his shoulder, scraping her teeth against the skin there to keep from crying out, but she can't help the low, deep groan that escapes her as her orgasm finally hits her, her head tilting back, muscles clenching and releasing and clenching and _shit, fuck, oh God_. In her head, she's screaming, but she manages to keep it down to tight, strangled moans as he moves faster, harder, her nails scratching at his ribcage as she becomes acutely aware of the bed frame squeaking. His fingers tug against her hair, a harsh groan sounding against her ear as he comes, thrusting deeply, once, twice, three times, again, and then he exhales heavily and his weight sinks more fully onto her, his hips stilling.

For a minute, they do nothing but lie there, trying to catch their breath, and then he turns his mouth against her throat, presses soft, sweet kisses there and murmurs, "That was a good idea."

Regina can't help it, she snickers. Understatement, she thinks. And she corrects, "That was a _great_ idea," as he reaches down between them and pulls back enough to wrap his hand around the condom and grip it as he pulls out of her. He glances around for the trash, and she tells him, "Next to the nightstand," reaches one hand over lazily to pull the wrinkled, bunched covers down, her limbs pleasantly shaky as she slips beneath them and stretches out, naked as a jaybird and entirely uncaring. Robin slips under the covers without invitation, reaching for her and drawing her close, their legs bumping and tangling as their mouths find each other again.

After a few minutes of lazy kisses, they settle in, cuddled up together, Robin on his back with Regina's head pillowed on his chest, his arm stretched across her back, fingers drawing lazy patterns on her hip. Regina's fingers skate across his torso, tracing the curve and dip of the muscles of his chest, his abs, that defined line that swoops down from his hip to where he is now limp and spent.

"Would you mind if I stayed the night?" he asks, eventually, and Regina tells him she thinks she'd mind if he **didn't**.

"But you'll have to get up early with me, and leave when I go to work," she warns, knowing that a four-AM wake-up call is not a welcome prospect for most.

"It'll be worth it," Robin assures, nestling her more fully against him and turning his chin to her forehead. "The idea of leaving you when you're all warm and naked is intolerable."

Regina snickers into his skin, shaking her head. "Stop flirting," she insists, "I already gave it up."

His index finger pokes lightly into her bicep. "I hope you don't think I flirt to get in your pants, Regina. I flirt because I like you, and you deserve to be flirted with." His lips press into her brow, and then he adds, "And sometimes I can get a blush out of you."

"I do not blush," she denies, although, she knows it's a lie. "Now, turn the light out, and hush."

He makes a doubtful sound as he stretches to switch off her bedside lamp, and then there's only darkness, and the cadence of his steady breathing, the warmth of his skin, the soft beat of his heart beneath her ear. It lulls Regina, pulls her into sleep almost immediately.

**.::.**

When the alarm goes off at 4am on Tuesday morning, Regina reaches for it blindly and punches the snooze. She is warm, more so than usual, even with nothing on her naked skin but the blankets and one limp, heavy arm. She smiles, the last night coming back to her as the haze of sleep begins to lift.

Regina rolls under that arm, turning to face Robin in the darkness. She can just barely make out his silhouette and he is still dead asleep. Regina scoots closer, rubs her leg along his, her hand up his bicep and over his shoulder until she can tug gently at the hair at his nape. She leans in, presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers, "Robin."

Nothing.

Another light tug and she shifts her mouth to his ear, nips the lobe gently and smirks when he stirs - and then settles.

She says his name again - "Robin" - and he grunts softly. "It's four. I have to go get in the shower," she tells him. He sighs, and shifts, tightens his hold on her slightly and then lets go. Regina smirks. That first four AM can be a rough one.

She tries again, pressing her body along his, trailing her nails over the back of his neck and asking, "You want to join me? Get all wet and soapy?"

At that, finally, Robin lifts his head from the pillow, grunting a strangled, "Okay. I'm up."

Regina chuckles.

Men.

**.::.**

"So," Emma says over a bowl of soup on Wednesday, long after Henry has been tucked into bed. "Robin's spent the night twice this week."

Regina frowns. Emma was well aware of Saturday - even if she had somehow managed to miss the man sacked out on their sofa when she arrived home, she'd woken eventually on Sunday morning and wolfed down the then-cold lumberjack breakfast they'd ordered for her. Made small talk in the kitchen briefly before Robin and Roland had left. But they hadn't seen her at all on Monday night before the incredible sex, had been gone long before the blonde woke on Tuesday, and Emma hadn't mentioned it at all until now. Regina had begun to think his presence in the apartment that night (coat on the rack, boots by the door) had gone unnoticed. Apparently not.

"Yes, he has," Regina says carefully.

Emma doesn't skirt the issue in the slightest, asking, "So what's the deal there? You guys something serious, or just something, y'know, groiny?"

Regina rolls her eyes. "I will never cease to marvel at your classy use of the English language, Miss Swan." Emma simply smirks and shrugs, as Regina continues, "Apparently Henry read him the riot act on Sunday morning, and told him he wasn't allowed to kiss me again unless he was officially my boyfriend."

Emma lets out the closest thing to a cackle that Regina has ever heard from her. "Of course he did," she sighs, amused. "God, he's a great kid. So Robin's your boyfriend, then? Or did he come over on Monday just to stare at you all doe-eyed and snuggle?"

"Yes, he is my boyfriend," Regina confirms, although it sounds silly to say it. Boyfriend. It's like they're fifteen, like she's waiting for him to ask her to prom. Someone really ought to come up with a better term than that.

"Good," Emma declares. "It's about time you let someone rattle your bones."

Regina snorts softly. Always to-the-point, Emma. "Why do I get the feeling that dating someone is going to have me subjected to constant ridicule in this house?"

"Aw, come on, this is fun for me, you having a boyfriend," Emma reasons. "Usually I'm the only one dating around here."

"Yes, and I'd like to remind you that I don't give you crap for it," Regina snips, spooning up the last of her soup and catching Emma's pointed look. Regina rolls her eyes and concedes, "Much."

"Well, whatever," Emma sighs, spoon carving into the dumpling in her bowl. "He's a good guy. I like him."

"I'm so glad he has your stamp of approval," Regina mutters, although truth be told, she really is. Emma is a friend as much as she is a roommate - family, more like it, and Regina does care what she thinks.

"Hey, did you bring home any more of those donut holes?" Emma asks, changing the subject, and that's that.

**.::.**

On Thursday afternoon, Henry comes home from school begging to sleep over at a friend's house the next night, and Emma tells Regina she'll be working Friday evening and maybe into the morning hours. She'll have the house to herself, she realizes. Normally she'd fill her docket with takeout and wine, and catching up on _Downton Abbey_ (Emma finds it terribly dull and yaps through the whole thing, so Regina binge watches on the nights she's alone), but this time she thinks of Robin, and she cannot pass up the opportunity to have him spend the night without having to worry about bedtimes or how loudly he makes her moan.

They're low on groceries, and Henry has a report due on a book he has not yet finished, so she leaves him at home to read the last twenty pages under Emma's supervision and heads for the store by herself. On the way, she calls Robin.

"Hello, cupcake," he greets her, and Regina lets out a short laugh.

"Cupcake?" she questions.

"Mm," he confirms. "I think it's fitting. You're sweet, compact, and I quite enjoy the taste of you."

Regina flushes, glancing around as if the people passing on the street can hear him. She says his name, once, a low "_Robin_."

"Too much?" he asks, and she realizes she's smiling through her blush, shakes her head even though he can't see her.

"No," she tells him coyly, her voice shifting to something a little harsher when she warns, "But don't call me 'cupcake.'"

"If you insist," he sighs, but not without humor. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your phone call this evening?"

Ah, yes. The point of all this. She shifts her phone from one ear to the other, pauses at a corner when the light is not in her favor and asks, "Do you remember when I said I'd make you dinner sometime?"

"I do…"

"Well, I've just been informed that I have the apartment to myself tomorrow, and I thought maybe you could come over, let me cook for you," Regina invites. "Prove my skills outside the bakery. If you're free, of course."

"Mm, I'd been hoping I might talk you into dinner and a movie, but this sounds like a much better plan. Although, technically, you have cooked for me."

She thinks back to Monday, figures he is only half right, and counters, "_Technically_, I cooked for Henry. You just happened to be there to reap the benefit."

"Well in that case, what time shall I come over tomorrow?"

She mulls it over, considers, decides, "Seven. Any food preferences?"

"I leave that up to you," he tells her, and it occurs to her (not for the first time, not nearly) that she really enjoys the sound of his voice. "Something you enjoy cooking. Show off a bit for me."

"I know just the thing," she tells him, mentally adjusting her grocery list.

"And what's that?" Robin asks.

Regina finds she doesn't particularly want to divulge the details, so she teases him with, "You'll find out when you arrive."

"Ah, I see. A surprise, then?"

"Mmhmm."

"Considering how your last surprise for me turned out, I'm inclined to trust you. Can I bring anything?"

"Wine," she tells him. "Red."

"Wine it is," Robin confirms. "I will see you tomorrow night at seven, my sweet." His voice shifts slightly as he asks, "Is that an acceptable endearment?"

"It is," she chuckles, adding, "Although I'm rather partial to 'lovely' as well."

"Noted," he tells her, and then, "I'll see you tomorrow, _lovely_."

"That you will," she flirts, before they say their goodbyes and hang up.

When she arrives home an hour later, clutching several bags of groceries, Emma and Henry politely move to help her unpack, pulling items from the bags one by one. Onions and peppers, tomatoes and ground meat, balls of mozzarella, a package of fresh lasagna noodles. It's that last one that has Henry perking up.

"You're making lasagna?" he asks excitedly, and Regina gives him a wincing smile.

"I am," she confirms, adding to what she's sure will be his extreme disappointment, "Tomorrow night."

"What?!" he exclaims, just as she expects. "But I won't be here tomorrow!"

"Oh, you jerk," Emma declares, knowingly, shaking her head with a scowl - they're going to gang up on her with this one, but Regina finds she doesn't mind. "I'm not here tomorrow either, kid. Mom's making Date Night Lasagna."

Henry lets out another sound of dismay, scowling at her now, too, but Regina just shrugs.

"Maybe I am. But I assure you, we won't eat it all." She walks to Henry, cups his cheeks, drops a kiss on the crown of his head. "There will be plenty of leftovers when you get home on Saturday."

The unpacking of groceries is much less enthusiastic from that point on.

**.::.**

He arrives fifteen minutes early on Friday night, and she ushers him in quickly before heading back to the stove and the béchamel she's been tending. She has already parboiled the lasagna noodles, laying them out carefully to await their layering in the pan, and there is a large pot of bolognese simmering away on a back burner. She's left the lights low outside of the kitchen, lit three squat pillars on the coffee table (she figures they'll end up on the sofa eventually - they always do), and has music playing at low volume - a playlist she spent perhaps an embarrassing amount of time and attention putting together the night before.

"This place smells like heaven," Robin practically moans, following her into the kitchen and setting the wine on the counter. It does not escape her notice that he picked up not one bottle, but two, and she wonders just how much he thinks they'll be knocking back tonight. He steps up behind her, peeks over her shoulder and asks, "Just what are you concocting for me in this magical kitchen of yours?"

"Lasagna bolognese," she tells him, just before he plants a smooch on the side of her neck, his lips catching as much hair as skin (she's wearing her hair down tonight - has gone for casual in dark jeans and a cozy cobalt blue sweater, her makeup relatively light aside from the red lipstick she knows he likes). "Emma and Henry would like you to know that they're terribly jealous of your dinner."

"Mm, I can imagine," he says, moving to her side and brushing her hair back behind her ear before pressing a kiss to her temple and asking, "Is that homemade meat sauce I'm smelling?"

Regina nods. "Anything less would be cheating."

"If you tell me you made the pasta from scratch too, I may weep," Robin warns, leaning against the counter nearby, before continuing, "and then accuse you of sorcery, because there's no way you could have gotten all this done since you got home from work this afternoon."

Regina snorts, shakes her head. "The pasta is not homemade - I did buy fresh, though."

He groans pleasantly and shakes his head, teases her, "I think you're trying to bewitch me with delicious food, lovely. Ensnare me so I never leave your side."

"Oh, am I?" she asks him with a raise of her brows, smiling and then accusing lightly, "Perhaps, but I'm fairly certain you're trying to get me drunk." She juts her chin toward the wine. "Two bottles?"

Robin scratches the back of his head with a slightly sheepish smile and admits, "You weren't terribly specific in your orders. I got a Pinot Noir and a Cabernet Sauvignon - figured that way you'd have options. Consider the other a gift."

"Ah, I see." They're still smiling at each other - grins growing wider and wider, like a couple of idiots. Regina forces herself to look away, to put her attention back on the béchamel that is nearly finished as she orders, "Open the Cab. The corkscrew is in the drawer in front of you - wine glasses in the cabinet to the right of the sink."

"As milady wishes," he obeys, setting to work on doing just that as she fusses over her béchamel, killing the heat and moving it to a cold burner. By the time she has her attention back on him, he has the wine open, two glasses poured, and she knows you're supposed to let wine breathe, but to hell with it - they're not that fancy. "And if you wouldn't mind ducking into the fridge, there's a plate of caprese to keep us from starving while this bakes."

"You're killing me," he insists fondly, opening the refrigerator door. "You've gone to too much trouble."

"This is no trouble," she assures - work, certainly, but not trouble - as he pulls out the aforementioned plate and a brown pastry box with the name _Ferrara_ emblazoned across the top in white. "I spend all day baking. And I love it, but it's work. Cooking, though - like this - this is pleasure, not trouble." As a near afterthought she reminds, "And you did tell me to show off."

"Well then I shall do my best not to feel too guilty," he tells her, taking his bounty to the table (there's hardly any room on the countertops with all the lasagna prep) as she says, _See that you don't_. Regina glances over in time to spy him tipping up the edge of the pastry box - the very fact that he brought it out is enough for her to know he has an inkling of what it contains. But still, he asks with obvious interest, "What do we have here?"

It's filled with mini cannoli, both plain and chocolate dipped.

"That's for dessert," she tells him, turning her attention to the bolognese and giving it a stir. A moment later his hands slide onto her hips and squeeze gently.

His voice is low and flirty when he tells her, "I had something else in mind for dessert."

Regina smirks, feels that spread of warmth in her belly the way she always does when he says something suggestive to her. He steps in even closer, brushes the hair from the side of her neck as she asks, "Oh, did you?" His beard tickles against sensitive skin as he hums a _Mmhmm_, his fingers sneaking forward under her apron, skimming along her belly. "Is this how it's going to be now?" she scolds lightly, her lips still curved. "All sex, all the time?"

She thinks she feels him frown against her skin, and he stops kissing, rests his chin against her instead and says, "No. Not _all_ the time. But I do find you quite irresistible, I hope you know that."

Regina leans back into his embrace for a moment, turns her head toward his to steal a kiss. It's a little awkward, the angle not quite right, but they manage. "I have noticed."

"Do you mind?" he asks her, and Regina grins, shakes her head, nudges her rear back against his hips playfully.

"Not in the slightest, Professor Locksley."

Robin groans and drops his forehead to her shoulder, murmurs there, "Don't say it like that," and a laugh bubbles up out of Regina.

"Do we have some latent teacher-student fantasies, Professor?" she teases, and Robin's hands slide back, squeezing her hips again before he tells her, _Only if you're the one playing the student_, and steps away from her, reaching for his wine. "Another time," she promises with a wink, and he bites that lip and shakes his head in amusement.

Regina turns back to the pot on the stove, dips the wooden spoon in and scoops up a small amount of sauce. She blows in a vain attempt to cool it, cupping her hand under to catch any drips as she holds it out to him. "Here, taste," she invites, and he leans in, blows a bit himself, until it's not steaming quite so much, then dips his mouth to the spoon. She watches, waiting, pleased when he looks impressed.

"That is excellent," he compliments.

"It's an old family recipe," she tells him, taking a quick sample herself and deciding it could use a bit more kick.

"Really?" he asks interestedly, as she reaches for the spice rack, grabs what she needs. "You're Italian, then?"

It's something they haven't talked about, she realizes - they'd covered hometowns, but not heritage. Not that it matters, but it's interesting, she supposes. So she nods, confirms, "On my mother's side."

"And your father's?"

"Puerto Rican," she tells him with a smile, adding some spice to the pot, stirring again. "I make a mean asopao."

"Puerto Rican?" He sounds surprised, reaching for his wine again. "Really?"

"Yes…" Regina moves away from the stove, toward the platter of tomato and mozzarella on the table. Another few minutes for the flavors to blend and the bolognese should be ready. Robin follows as she questions, "This surprises you?"

"Mills," he points out, and she shrugs, has to give him that.

"On _his_ mother's side," she clarifies, settling into one of the chairs and lifting a piece of mozz toward her lips. Robin takes the other chair, pulls it out at an angle and sits close enough that their knees bump. "Grandpa Mills was old New England money. Owned half a town up in Maine. Quite the scandal when he married a Latina of meager means."

"Back then, I'd imagine so. And you somehow ended up in Virginia," he recalls, reaching for the plate as well.

"Mm," she nods, still chewing. She swallows, and then, "Yes. My mother is very ambitious - she's a lobbyist in D.C." She gives him a wry smile. "Please don't hold it against me."

"I'm not a big believer in sins of the father," he dismisses.

"What about you?" she asks, stealing a piece of tomato and thinking she should probably have brought forks over, it would have been neater, but then he's licking a drop of balsamic from the edge of his thumb and she decides that no, no, this is just fine. Apparently he's not the only one who finds the other irresistible.

"Me?" he questions, and Regina blinks, has to remember exactly what she'd asked him just moments before.

Ah, yes.

"Your family," she clarifies, and Robin shrugs.

"English. Both sides, for many generations. I can make a mean cup of tea," he teases, counterpoint to her claim from a moment ago, and Regina snickers, nodding.

"A lost art, I'm sure," she taunts.

"In this country, perhaps. You Americans have a terrible lack of appreciation for a good cuppa."

She's not sure if he means that, or if he's just playing the patriotic part, but either way, she can't let him get away with it.

"You come into my bakery every single morning and order _coffee_," she points out, challenging him.

He grins, caught, and admits, "It's really excellent coffee. And I'm in the habit, now."

"Why'd you start?" she wonders curiously. "You told me you've lived in that apartment for years, but you only just started coming in a few weeks ago."

"My coffee maker broke," he informs with a chuckle. Regina's brows lift. _Simple as that?_ she wonders. Is she really sitting here in her kitchen, with this man she is so quickly falling for, the one who makes her smile, and blush, and come and come, because of a faulty appliance? "I hoped you'd have better coffee and a shorter line than Starbucks."

Regina lets out a little laugh and shakes her head. "You kept coming in for a month. How many coffee makers did you break, exactly?"

He ducks his head a little then, looks up at her with a grin that is particularly boyish and admits, "I've actually yet to replace that first one."

She makes a face of amused confusion, points out, "Don't you work about four blocks from a Bed, Bath and Beyond?"

"I do," he confirms, leaning over to buss her lips lightly. When he sits back, he reaches for one of her knees, draws her legs up into his lap, fingers coasting over the denim in meandering trails. "But if I replaced it, then I'd no longer have an excuse to drop in and peek at you."

Her confusion melts away into a flattered smile, and she says, "Y'know, your whole stalker routine is much more charming than it should be."

He scoffs, mocks offense, one hand splaying on his chest in dismay. "Stalking? I was by no means stalking you, my sweet. I was simply biding my time, that's all."

"Oh, is that all?" she asks teasingly, reaching for her wine and taking a sip.

"Mm," he confirms, adding, "And it seems to have worked out quite well for me, don't you think?"

"I suppose it has," she concedes, watching as he reaches forward for her wine glass, sets it aside and gives her chair a sharp yank closer. Regina yelps softly in surprise, but goes willingly when he reaches for her, shifting from her chair to his lap.

"I'm sorry, but those red lips are too tempting to leave alone for long," he sighs, leaning in for another kiss - a proper one this time, taking his time, his tongue teasing against her lower lip before he sucks it gently, releases.

"You're going to kiss it all off if you're not careful," she taunts, but he just chuckles mischievously, tells her it's an admirable goal, and kisses her again, more, clutching her impossibly closer.

His fingers thread through her hair, his mouth making its way to her throat, and he murmurs, "I love when you wear your hair down like this."

"I've noticed," she gasps, when his tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot. "But if you don't stop this we'll never have dinner."

Robin groans, kisses her lips one more time.

"Just," she tries between presses of his lips against hers. "Let me – put the lasagna tog–mm– together and then – you can have your wicked way with – me while it – bakes."

One last warm, wet kiss, and then he presses his forehead to hers, agrees with, "Deal."

Regina has never thrown a lasagna together so fast in her life. Robin stands behind her while she works, drawing her hair to the side and nibbling his way along her neck, his hands smoothing up and down her biceps, fingers skimming back to her spine, tracing down the column, finding the tie at the back of her apron and loosening it. She chides him breathlessly, and dollops a bit more sauce than is absolutely necessary onto her current layer.

Within minutes, the lasagna is in the oven, and Regina has been deposited on the now-much-more-empty countertop, her apron long gone, Robin's hands wandering beneath her sweater as his mouth makes its way along her throat again. She thinks they should go to the bedroom, or the sofa at the very least, thinks they should absolutely not have sex on the same countertop where she makes lunches for her son, rolls sugar cookies with her roommate. But then he has his hands full of her breasts, and she decides, _Screw it, that's what Lysol is for_ and winds her legs around his waist.

He cups her through the lace of her bra - the black one, the one she'd worn on their first date with no intention of letting him see. Her intentions are very different tonight, but she's content with him where he is right now, cupping and squeezing, tugging lace to the side in search of pebbled nipples. Regina's hands are just as adventurous, skimming over his back, his sides, thumbs coasting along the muscles at his hips as she works her mouth along his pulse, sucking lightly, making him exhale heavily and give her nipples a firmer tug.

She barely gets his shirt over his head, barely has a chance to drag her fingers over his chest, his abs, before he's reaching for her jeans, kissing her fiercely and unfastening them, pushing them down her hips. Regina plants her hands onto the countertop behind her for leverage, then lifts her hips, shimmying to help him tug down the tight fabric. Their kisses grow sloppy, distracted, and then she's naked from the waist down and bare-assed on the countertop.

Her sweater follows momentarily, up and over her head, then tossed away, forgotten, and he bites his lip at the sight of that bra, haphazardly arranged on her as it is. There were matching panties - a shame he's missed those - now crumpled into the heap of denim on the floor. She sits up straighter, tugs the cups back into place and leans back again, lets him get a good look at her, his hands rubbing up and down her sides.

"Tell me you wore that for me, I beg of you," he says to her, and Regina smirks, pushes her chest out just a little further, enjoying the way he's devouring the sight of her.

"I have to tell you that?" she questions cheekily, because of course she did. Robin doesn't answer, just leans in and begins to suck kisses against the swells of her breasts, his hands moving behind her and deftly undoing the clasp, tugging the lace down and off her arms, dropping it to the floor. Never once does he stop kissing her, but he changes destination now, seeking out her nipples and treating them to flicks of tongue, and firm sucks, worrying them gently with his teeth the way he has already figured out she likes so much. He keeps it up until she is breathing heavily, one hand clutching at his shoulders, gasping her pleasure, and then he forges a wet, tongue-streaked path down the center of her belly, dropping to his knees in front of her, and giving her a long, lingering lick. It ends with a slow swirl of his tongue against her clit, her toes curling at the sensation.

"I thought I was dessert," she flirts breathlessly as Robin drags his tongue over her again, in another wide, slow lick.

"Changed my mind," he murmurs, lips brushing her clit as he speaks, making her groan softly. "You're the appetizer."

And then he starts up in earnest, and all Regina can manage is a choked "Oh…" as his tongue flicks against her again and again, quick and light, right on her clit. She bites her lip and drops her head back to the cabinet behind her, moaning softly.

He stops for just a moment, just long enough to remind her, "We're all alone, my sweet. No need to stifle yourself," and when he sucks her clit back between his lips, her groan is full-throated and eager, and she feels Robin's grip tighten on her thighs. He likes to listen to her - that much she's already figured out - likes the sight and sound of her coming apart for him. And she likes feeling this way - free, and sexy, so utterly desired - so she gives him what he wants, offers up every gasp and moan of pleasure like a gift, breathes his name, rakes her fingers through his hair when his singular focus on her clit has her thighs trembling, her breath hitching, has her climbing higher and higher toward that precipice.

"Don't stop," she moans heatedly when he switches to long, licking sucks, coaxing, "Just like th-_oh_!" Her voice drops to a soft whisper, repeating, "Just like that…" He doesn't stop, keeps up the strong, steady pressure, and her hips are twitching now in his grasp, her breath hitching higher, deeper, and then she feels it start to spread, heat and pleasure, warm and glowing into her belly before the full force of the orgasm hits her and she cries out, pitching forward slightly against his relentless mouth.

He doesn't draw it out this time, simply works her long enough for the orgasm to peak and then pushes up to his feet again, already freeing his belt from its loops and buckle. Regina watches, catching her breath as he tugs down his zipper, pushes his pants and underwear to the floor and shuffles a step closer until he's tucked between her thighs.

"Condom," she reminds breathlessly as he reaches down to guide himself into her, and he groans, curses softly and tells her his wallet is in his coat. She's tempted, so tempted, to tell him to forget it – short of a failure of modern medicine, she's not likely to get pregnant and she trusts that he'd have told her by now if there was anything else she needed to worry about in his regard, but he's already stepping out of his pants and turning for the coat rack by the door. Regina takes a moment to admire the rear view as he walks away, ogles the curve of his bare ass, bites her lip appreciatively.

He's back within moments, already tearing open the condom wrapper as he walks, tossing the little foil packet on the countertop next to her and pinching the tip of the latex before he's even come to a full stop between her legs again.

"I'm usually much more of a gentleman about this sort of thing," he informs her regretfully as he rolls the condom down his length and reaches eagerly for her thigh. Regina smirks at him, spreading them wider.

"I don't want you to be a gentleman," she dismisses, because he does enough of that the rest of the time. "I just want you to fuck me."

He pauses for a moment, a centimeter away from pushing into her, dropping his head to her shoulder with a heated groan. "You're too much, you know that?" he accuses, adding, "Little minx," as he draws his latex-covered tip through her folds until he can sink into her slowly.

Regina tilts her hips slightly to ease his entrance, moaning at the all-too-welcome feel of him inside her again, and then his mouth is on hers, kissing, nipping. His palms make their way to her ass and he gives her a little tug closer, the curve of her rear slipping just off the edge of the countertop. That edge digs into her slightly when he gives a firm thrust, but it's not nearly uncomfortable enough for her to stop him. He starts a rhythm that is slower than she'd expected, sliding himself nearly all the way out and then back in languidly, again and again. It's not what she'd been prepared for, but it's _good_. He fills her up pleasantly, she feels the slow friction of every drag in and out, and it sets her arousal to a simmer, has her tipping her head back, closing her eyes, moaning a throaty _God_ before his mouth lands on her neck, his tongue tracing up her pulse and making her gasp.

He licks all the way up to the back of her jaw and asks her quietly, "Is this how you like it, lovely?" his voice a little unsteady with pleasure. "Nice and slow?"

He's always _talking_ to her, she thinks deliriously, always with that voice in her ear as he does delicious things to her. How does he expect her to keep her head straight when he's pitching back and forth into her, squeezing her ass, nipping at her earlobe? She manages a hissed, "Yes...," and then, "Your–" but she cuts herself off. She wants to say _Your cock feels amazing_, or _You're so __**thick**_, but she's not bold enough. Not quite. Blushes at just the thought of saying something that explicit to him (which is ridiculous, because if she can't say something like that to the man currently fucking her deeply, who _can_ she say it to?).

"My what?" he asks her, of course he does, straightening up slightly as one hand leaves the curve of her ass and wanders between them, seeking out her clit and stroking it lightly.

Regina lets out an almost embarrassing whimper of pleasure, feels herself clench tightly around him once.

"You feel so good," she sighs in answer, her voice suddenly reedy and tight. Robin moans, and rakes his gaze over her, taking her in. It settles eventually between their thighs, watching where he moves in and out of her, teeth biting that lower lip again, his fingers still soft and slow against her clit. He keeps it up for a few more minutes, until Regina is writhing and rocking her hips back against his, and then the pace starts to build, slowly but surely, his thumb rubbing harder against her clit, hips pistoning faster into hers, and soon the kitchen is filled with the dull slap of skin on skin, Regina's increasingly frantic cries, Robin's soft grunts and encouragements.

This time, she comes with a wordless shout and a cluster of loud, satisfied moans, nothing to stifle them or the pleasure rocking through her in waves with every continued thrust. Robin's orgasm follows almost immediately after hers, the hand on her ass gripping tightly as he empties himself with a rough exhale. For a moment, she feels like she's buzzing, her nerve endings still hypersensitive, but then she starts to come back down and slowly she becomes aware of the ache in her wrists where her hands have been planted flat against the countertops, the sore strip across her rear where she had rocked into the counter's edge over and over. She adjusts herself slightly, using those aching wrists as leverage for a moment more to scooch her tush back onto the counter more fully.

Robin's hand moves quickly between them to grasp the condom as her shift has him slipping out of her, and she breathes, "Sorry," into the space between them.

"It's alright," he assures, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her lips as he slides the condom off and tosses it into the trash bin still sitting nearby, slowly amassing her cooking scraps.

Regina grimaces slightly, and sits up fully as she says, "We need to throw that trash out tonight, so I don't have to explain used condoms to my son, or put up with Emma taunting me mercilessly over 'getting my jollies' in the kitchen."

A laugh rumbles in his chest before he nods, agrees with an, "Of course." She's rubbing her wrists absently, but he reaches for them, stroking his thumbs over the joints and then lifting them to his lips, kissing lightly before drawing them over his shoulders. "Come here, you," he coaxes, stroking down her arms, her shoulders, until he has his arms looped comfortably around her, their torsos pressing together with each breath as he kisses her warmly again.

Regina's arms circle his waist, her heels hooking around the backs of his thighs, and they linger like that, trading soft kisses, hands wandering over naked skin, threading soft locks, nails scraping lightly to call out little shivers. He palms her thighs, her hips, strokes her breasts softly, kisses that sweet spot under her jaw. If nudity is a little chilly now that they're not otherwise occupied, she doesn't mind, not with all his warmth pressed up against her front.

"You know…" he murmurs into their kisses. "I had every intention of having you in that nice soft bed of yours. Kissing every lovely inch of you, taking my time…"

Regina's lips curve, and he kisses her smile before she assures him, "I don't believe you heard me complain. I must admit – mm – I like knowing you can't get enough of me." Her fingers skim down his shoulders, over his chest, her legs squeezing against his thighs. "But if you'd like to give it another go, we could always take the cannoli into the bedroom after dinner…"

Robin chuckles warmly and nods, tells her he thinks that sounds like a fine plan. And then his mouth is on her skin again, and they stop talking.

Eventually, the loud buzz of the oven timer startles them from their reverie. Regina says something about how it's probably unwise to handle a hot casserole in the nude, and Robin gives her one last kiss before stepping back reluctantly.

They gather their strewn clothes, some of which have wandered remarkably far (Regina laughs when she realizes he'd tossed her sweater halfway to the sofa), and pull the lasagna from the oven once they're safely dressed. She'd meant to make garlic bread, she realizes, having forgotten completely once they started getting busy, but he tells her not to worry about it, that the lasagna is more than enough.

After dinner, they find their way to the sofa, finishing off that first bottle of wine as they let their food settle. They talk, easy as always, and they make it through twenty whole minutes that way before Regina raises a suggestive eyebrow at Robin and leans in close, whispering in his ear.

"I think it may be time to take those cannoli to the bedroom, Professor Locksley."

He grins, downs the last sip of his wine, and agrees.

He makes good on his promise, strips her down slowly this time and kisses every bare inch of her while she does the same to him, and if Regina stays up a little past her bedtime, too lost in the taste of his skin, the feel of his hands, of him inside her, well, who can really blame her?


	6. Week Six

Regina has a problem, and that problem is her libido.

She's never been a particularly horny person - she's enjoyed sex, certainly, during the brief stints of time it has been available to her, and she's definitely had certain private needs to tend to from time to time, urges that have had her locking her door an hour before her usual bedtime and spending a bit of _quality time_ with herself. But it's never been anything like this.

They cannot keep their hands off each other.

They'd done it twice more on Friday night - well, technically speaking, it had been a second time on Friday night and a slick, slippery quickie in the shower in the wee hours of Saturday morning before she'd gone in to work. She'd stopped by his place on her way home later that day – an innocent visit to pick up that copy of _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ that he'd forgotten to bring by earlier in the week – and ended up half naked on his couch, jeans still hanging off one ankle, sweaty and weak-kneed and incredibly satisfied.

It's not so much that she _minds_ going from no sex in years to five times in one week, but they can't keep this up. They have children to take care of and jobs to do, and she cannot be spending every waking moment thinking about the next time she can get him between her thighs.

So when her period shows up unexpectedly (not that it is ever expected with her IUD, it just seems to come and go whenever it damn well pleases - leaving her alone for months at a time and then surprising her when it is least convenient), she is almost relieved. The forced celibacy might be good for them, reset their hormones from "horny teenager" to "fully-grown adults with a modicum of self-control."

At 8:15 he walks in the door, and at 8:20 he is standing in her kitchen, leaning against the wall between the door and the pass-through, coffee in hand. He still doesn't invade her space without permission - a fact that makes her smile and appreciate him all the more.

"Good morning, Regina," he greets as she portions batter into the last two lined wells of a muffin tin. Pumpkin spice - flying off the shelves now in the weeks between Halloween and Thanksgiving.

"Good morning, Robin," she parrots back at him, hefting the tin and heading for the oven before making her way over and giving him a chaste kiss hello.

His arms find their place around her middle, hugging her against him. "How was your Sunday?"

"Good," she tells him, lingering there in his arms a little longer than usual this morning. One of his hands begins to creep down, thumb hooking into her back pocket, fingers against her rear. The other still holds his coffee. "But I have some bad news." His mouth draws into a frown at that, so Regina reassures, "Nothing serious, just..." She lowers her voice, barely more than a whisper. "It's that time of the month."

"Ah," he says knowingly, giving her a little squeeze and then asking sympathetically, "Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

Regina rolls her eyes.

"I'm a woman, not an invalid," she reminds, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in that devilishly handsome smirk. "I have it handled. It just means we'll have to behave ourselves for a few days, that's all."

"Mm. I recall anticipation working out well for us in the past," he reasons, his fingers lifting to push back the wisps of hair already slipping from her ponytail. "I'm sure we can survive the week."

Regina shakes her head, telling him, "With any luck, we won't even have to wait that long. I have an IUD; they're light, short, and infrequent." It seems odd, speaking this frankly to a man about her period, but, well, it's not as if it doesn't affect him directly, and he doesn't seem the least bit squeamish about the topic. (He was married before, she reminds herself. Surely, periods don't throw him.) "You could be back to seducing me every chance you get by the weekend."

"I have Roland this weekend," he tells her reluctantly, then asks hopefully, "Thursday?"

She shrugs, offers, "Maybe?" It's not as though she has control over the situation.

Robin's head ducks down to steal a kiss from her lips, and he lingers there, deepening it slightly, his tongue teasing her bottom lip until she opens for him. After a full minute, they're startled out of their embrace by Ruby's palm smacking down onto the pass-through.

Regina looks over just as Ruby cranes her neck through the window and scolds, "Get a room, you two. Honestly."

Robin snickers near her ear, and Regina frowns. "There's no way you could see us from out there," she tells the younger woman. This spot between the door and the pass-through is one of the few blind spots in the kitchen - she wouldn't have dared kiss him for so long if she'd thought there was a chance the little old lady sipping a cappuccino and crocheting at one of their tables might catch a good look.

"You stopped talking for like a whole minute," Ruby points out, and the bell over the door rings again. Her voice trails away as she turns back to help her customer: "Wasn't that hard to figure out."

When she's gone, Regina sighs a bit reluctantly and admits, "You should get to work."

"Yeah," he sighs in kind, and Regina lets him steal one more kiss from her before she steps away.

She smirks at what she sees then, teasing, "It looks like you'll be the one wearing flour today."

The front of his coat has a few small, dusty white patches from where she'd been pressed against him.

Robin looks down, chuckles lightly and shrugs. "You wear it better."

She rolls her eyes at that, but grins. "You are incorrigible," she accuses before shooing him toward the door. "Now out."

He goes, still smiling, and Regina turns back to her work.

**.::.**

The day goes downhill from there.

A series of little irritations stack up on top of each other, wearing on her patience – which was already particularly thin to begin with (worse once the tension headache had kicked in, squeezing her like a vice). She'd killed the music around noon, had threatened at 1:30 to rip the bell off the wall if it jingled one more time, had snapped at Belle not once but twice. She'd been glad, at least, that it was Belle and not Ruby. Ruby has teeth of her own, gets her hackles up when she's unfairly vilified, and it has led to heated words and hurt feelings on more than one occasion.

Belle, though, Belle just widens her eyes slightly, straightens her spine, waits for Regina to fume out and nods. Keeps whatever snappy comment she has undoubtedly thought of right there on the tip of her tongue and leaves Regina alone. On the rare occasion Regina's sharp tongue leaves a burn, she will hear about it the next day, but Belle does not poke at Regina's snarling temper.

Robin had shown up at half past two with a box of chocolates for her, and she'd been surly and short-tempered with him, too. Had told him it was predictable and trite, bringing chocolate to a woman on her period, and that if he'd really wanted to win her over, he should've brought garlic knots. Had spit so much unnecessary acid in his direction that she'd actually managed to draw an irritated clench of his jaw, and an offer to leave her alone if she'd rather.

That she'd managed to kick up his own irritation had somehow been the impetus for the final fizzling of her own, and she'd sagged against the edge of the prep table with a heavy breath, apologizing and admitting that she wasn't feeling well, her headache now a throbbing, pulsing thing, despite the two Advil she'd choked down an hour ago. He'd drawn her to him, ever forgiving, cradling her aching head against his shoulder and kneading his fingers into the tight muscles of her neck.

"Go home," he'd urged her. She only had a half hour more, Belle could handle anything else that needed doing.

Regina had shaken her head, insisted that no, she needed to stay, there was too much to be done, and she was picking up Henry today anyway – she'd barely get home before she'd have to leave again.

And then Robin had looked down at her, toyed with the ends of her ponytail absently and offered to pick Henry up himself - if she didn't think the boy would mind, that is. Her insistence that she didn't want him to go to any trouble for her fell on deaf ears, and he'd been pulling his keys from his bag, winding his house set off the ring and dangling it in front of her, insistent.

"Go to my place and lie down for a bit. I'll pick him up, take him for a slice, and we'll come meet you. I did promise to show him that early edition of _Grimms' Fairy Tales_…"

It had taken a little more prodding, and much insistence from Belle that everything would be more than fine in her absence, but Regina had finally relented, calling the school and asking them to let Henry know he'd be met by Robin.

By the time they'd left the bakery, it had been nearly three anyway, and Robin had walked her to his door, then parted ways with a kiss to her brow.

And now here she is, alone in his place for the first time. It feels odd, to be here when he isn't. Not exactly invasive, but somehow voyeuristic. Her headache is approaching migraine intensity, so she tugs open the medicine cabinet in his bathroom hoping for Advil, nearly weeping with relief when she unearths a bottle of Excedrin - even better. She takes it with a palmful of water from the tap, then sets it back precisely where she found it. She knows he wouldn't mind, but it feels like snooping.

She heads for the bedroom instead of the sofa, and realizes with a start that she has never actually been in there before. They've never made it past the sofa when they've been at his place. She pushes the door open slowly, finds the room blessedly dim. The decor in here is relatively sparse - a bed, a nightstand, a dresser flanked wall-to-wall by more bookshelves crammed full, a large, framed print on the wall and a few photos on the dresser. He hadn't been expecting company – the bed is unmade, last night's pajamas still in a crumpled heap on the sheets, and there are dirty socks just shy of the clothes hamper in the corner, but Regina pays them no mind. She'd shed her shoes and coat by the door, but she shimmies out of her pants now, too, shrugs her sweater off until she's down to a t-shirt and her underwear, tugs her hair out of its ponytail, then slips under his sheets.

They're cool and soft, and when she presses her cheek into the pillow, she's surrounded by the smell of him. Regina inhales deeply, breathes him in, and shuts her eyes. Sleep doesn't come until the Excedrin begins to kick in, smoothing the jagged edges of her headache, but when it comes, it pulls her down deep.

She wakes in the dark, disoriented, aware she's not in her own room but confused for a moment about where she is and why. She hears voices from the other room - Henry, she realizes, and then Robin. Robin's. She's at Robin's.

Her headache has abated for the most part, so she fumbles for her jeans and her sweater, pulling them on and half stumbling to the bedroom door, still a little sleep-drunk. She squints against the brightness of the living room (not really that bright, to be honest, but it takes her a moment to adjust), and there they are. Both of them slouched on his sofa, a large book half on Robin's lap, half on Henry's, both of them with their feet up on the coffee table.

They both look up when she appears; they both grin.

"Hi, mom!" Henry greets enthusiastically before his smile dims, and he asks her almost anxiously, "Do you feel better?"

Regina smiles, and nods, makes her way over and settles onto his other side. She hugs him to her with one arm, presses a kiss to the top of his head and ignores the way he squirms a little, embarrassed. "Much better," she assures, letting him go. "What are we looking at?"

As Henry's attention drops back to his lap and he begins to tell her excitedly about the valuable old book of fairy tales, Regina meets Robin's gaze. He's still smiling at her, suppressing a grin even, and she gives him a curious look before he reaches over and combs his fingers through her hair, hitting a knot with a dull tug. She's sleep-mussed and tangled, she realizes, rolling her eyes to mask her embarrassment and looking down at the book, now, too.

Robin continues to toy with her hair, his fingertips skimming her scalp, the back of her neck, nimbly untangling the few knots he finds. He keeps up the attention long after he's tamed the tangles, carding his fingers through her locks over and over, absently. Regina thinks if she could purr, that's exactly what she'd be doing.

Henry reads to them from the book until Regina's stomach growls loudly, and Robin chuckles and insists they get some food into her. But it's getting late, so she calls their evening to an end instead, heading home with Henry feeling immeasurably better than she had when she walked in the door that afternoon.

**.::.**

She's working in her office on Tuesday morning when he arrives, taking care of the more headache-inducing parts of running a business. There's a cappuccino next to her, half-forgotten and half-cold, and a croissant that she'd taken no more than two bites of before being distracted by her work. So distracted, in fact, that he manages to startle her with the soft knock on her open door.

Regina jumps slightly, inhaling quickly before turning to greet him and his apologetically amused smile. "I didn't mean to startle you," he tells her, coffee and to-go bag in hand, the shoulders of his coat damp from the light rain. "Ruby said you wanted to see me."

Waving a hand dismissively, Regina shakes her head and insists, "It's fine. I was just… in the middle of things." She reaches for an envelope on her desk with a sudden pang of anxiety, the ridiculous poem she'd jotted into the card seeming incredibly foolish now that she's actually about to hand it to him. She swallows heavily as she stands and moves to meet him in the office doorway (he hovers here, too, she notices - doesn't invite himself into her space even though she's asked for him). "But you are definitely a welcome distraction."

He leans in for a kiss once she's close enough, lingering for a few moments and then pressing his lips to her brow softly. "I won't be a distraction for long," he murmurs reluctantly. "I spent a bit too long chatting with Ruby, I'm afraid I don't have much time."

Well, that kills any chance she has of stalling on this - not that it's important, it could wait for days, weeks, forever. But she's being stupid, and childish, so she tips the card up toward him then, revealing his name inked onto the butter yellow paper, and says, "Then, I'd better give this to you now." She smiles sheepishly and adds, "Please excuse the cheesy poem. It was 4am, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Why, Regina Mills," he teases gently, passing her his coffee and taking the envelope in trade. "You wrote me cheesy poetry? I'm quite flattered."

She rolls her eyes as he slips his finger beneath the flap to loosen it, muttering, "Just shut up and read it," before taking a sip of his coffee for no other reason than to soothe her jumpy nerves.

He draws the card out and opens it - it's a simple note card, blank on the inside before she'd penned her loopy handwriting there, fall leaves on the outside - and Regina watches as he reads, watches his lip curl up in a smirk, then widen into a grin. When he clears his throat slightly, she feels her cheeks go hot. "You are _not_," she warns, but he does it anyway, he reads her words aloud.

"_Roses are red, violets are blue. You get unlimited refills on coffee, and free wi-fi, too_." he chuckles softly, and adds, "I think that's the most romantic thing anyone has ever written for me."

Regina actually reaches out to smack him then, connecting lightly with the damp fabric over his bicep. "I told you, it was early and I was sleep-addled-"

His lips fall on hers again, interrupting her excuses. "I think it's sweet," he tells her earnestly. "Although I've told you I don't need anything for free just because I'm dating the boss."

"You've told me, yes," she agrees, still gripping his coffee, the nerves in her belly not quite abated yet. "And I'm giving it to you anyway."

"Well, thank you." He glances back down at the card, which has their wifi network and password written beneath her ridiculous poem, and muses, "I had a feeling Henry's Castle was you."

Regina's the one chuckling now, watching as Robin tucks the card back into its envelope before stowing it in his bag. "I told him he could name it, and that's what he chose."

"I had a good time with him last night," Robin tells her, easing his coffee out of her grasp. "You've raised a wonderful boy."

She feels something warm and sweet in her chest at the compliment, and finds herself smiling graciously. "Thank you. And thank you for yesterday - both for putting up with me, and for looking after him. I was worried it might be a little too soon, but he could not stop talking about you and that book the whole way home."

"It was my pleasure," he insists, and then he's glancing at his watch, and sighing, and telling her he really does need to get going. "I'll stop by later, on my way home." His eyes go impish then, and he leans in toward her, whispering conspiratorially, "I may even bring some garlic knots."

Regina laughs outright at that, tickled that he's making light of yesterday's grumbling. She matches his teasing tone, and tells him, "Don't forget the dipping sauce."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he assures gallantly, leaning in for one more kiss, and a playful nip to her bottom lip before he leaves.

She glances at the clock as she sits back down at her desk, and knows he's going to be a few minutes late today, but she simply cannot bring herself to feel bad for delaying him.

**.::.**

On Wednesday, they go for sushi and he comes home with her afterward, reads to Henry again from his Harry Potter book. Regina is suddenly second-best in the bedtime story department, something she tries not to take personally. It's the novelty and the accent, the voices and the effortless explanation of the occasional unfamiliar British phrasing. Still, it makes her ache a little bit, lights a tiny twinge of jealousy in her heart. She tells herself to swallow it down, to suck it up, because this is good for him - for them. Bonding.

When Henry starts to yawn from his place on the sofa, she declares it bedtime - not wanting a repeat of the previous week. He climbs into the loft bed and lets her tuck him in, but when she presses a kiss to his forehead and bids him goodnight, he frowns and asks, "You aren't going to read to me?"

"Oh," Regina says, surprised. "I just thought – Robin already read to you, I didn't think you'd want to read any more."

But Henry shakes his head and tells her, "That's different. You always read to me before bed."

Regina smiles at her son, that little flicker of needless envy snuffing out as she climbs up into bed with him. She leaves Robin waiting in the other room without a moment's hesitation, and spends the next twenty minutes reading to Henry. Maybe she doesn't do voices, maybe she doesn't sound like she could teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, but she's still his mother, and this is still their time together, and some things do not change with Robin's arrival in her life.

**.::.**

Robin spends the night.

They're lying in bed together, not sleeping, not yet. Robin is pressed behind her, one arm over her waist, the other tucked beneath the pillow under his head, and their fingers are joined. Weaving. Digits sliding along each other lazily.

Regina feels relaxed, and sleepy. Comfortable beyond measure.

And then his voice comes to her, "I'm clean," and she frowns slightly.

"Hmm?" She answers a bit more sleepily than she'd meant.

"I'm clean," he repeats, and then, "You have an IUD..."

Ah.

Her lips curve slightly and she turns in his grasp. It's barely even a question when she asks knowingly, "You want to ditch the condoms?"

He shrugs, lips pulled down a little and explains, "They're a hassle. One more thing to do before I get to be inside you." His fingers pulse against her hip as he adds, "And I want to _feel_ you. I want nothing in the way." His lips find her brow. "But it's up to you."

"I haven't been tested in a while," she tells him, although she's certain she's clean, too.

"You also haven't had sex in a while," he points out, and Regina laughs softly, pokes him hard on the ribs and makes him wince. "Ow," he chuckles. "It wasn't an insult, just an observation. I haven't either, you know."

She nods and presses her body in closer, fingers skimming up his back. "He'd have told me if he found out anything I needed to know," Regina says, and she knows that with certainty. Graham would've called if he'd tested positive for anything, and he's diligent about physicals.

Robin's hand works under the back of her pajama top, fingers wandering aimlessly across the base of her spine, making her shiver.

"We can keep using them if you want," he offers. "It was just a thought."

_No, it was a request_, she thinks but doesn't say. And not an unreasonable one. "No, we don't have to," she tells him. "I don't love them either. They dry me out."

Robin laughs quietly, pulls her flush against him for a moment (he's hard against her belly, and it makes anticipatory warmth spread inside her that she knows will go unsatisfied). "I haven't noticed that being a problem," he teases and Regina flushes slightly in the darkness.

"Well," she chuckles, biting her lip before whispering boldly, "Someone gets me very wet."

Robins mouth settles on top of hers and hums appreciatively, deepening the kiss as his fingers slide along the waistband of her pajamas and tickle against the skin there. "Are you wet right now?" he murmurs into a break in the kiss.

"Maybe," she whispers coyly. And then adds grumpily, "Not that it would do us any good."

Robin makes a noise of disappointment and nearly pouts as he grouses, "You need to stop bleeding as soon as possible."

Regina chuckles and pushes at his shoulder, urging him onto his back as she reassures him, "It won't be long." Her hand skims down, along his belly, further, cupping his erection as she teases, "In the meantime..." She leans in, presses a kiss over his heart through the cotton of his shirt, then another lower down. "Just because I can't..." Lower, again. "Doesn't mean you can't."

Robin sucks in a breath at that, lets it out on an "Oh, God..." as Regina continues her descent. When she tugs at his waistband, he lifts his hips to accommodate, his cock springing free. Regina wraps her hand around it, strokes once, enjoying the soft feel of the skin there, imagining how much better it will feel sliding in and out of her than sticky, rubbery latex. And then she takes him into her mouth, and he groans.

She pulls back, flicking her tongue against his foreskin teasingly as she goes, and warns playfully, "Be quiet."

Robin's fingers weave into her hair as she licks her way along his shaft, before she sets to work trying to make silence as hard as possible for him.

Turnabout is fair play, after all.

**.::.**

"You get up too early," he grumbles into her pillow at quarter past four on Thursday morning. She should be out of bed already, headed for the shower, but he's warm and cozy, wrapped around her back, and Regina is having a hard time extricating herself both from his hold and from the seductive pull of more sleep.

That traitorous inner voice whispers in her ear that she can go in as late as she wants; she's the boss. She could sleep another hour and sure, maybe they wouldn't have fresh apple-cranberry muffins for the early risers, but they wouldn't have a completely empty bakery case either…

And then the other voice, the one she likes a bit less than the first, reminds her that she is, indeed, the boss, and that her livelihood depends upon that bakery case being fully stocked.

So she sighs, and pushes gently at his arms, teasing sleepily, "Maybe you sleep in too late."

Robin just grunts in reply, and Regina manages to extricate herself fully from him, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed, letting her feet hang over as she stretches, arms rising, torso bending one way, then the other. Her back lets out a soft pop, loosening blissfully, and Regina lets out a contented sigh.

"'M'a give you b'ckrub tonight," he slurs against the pillow, his mouth half muffled by fluffy faux down and soft Egyptian cotton (there are places that Regina pinches pennies, but her bedding is certainly not one of them).

"I'm going to hold you to that," she assures, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his brow, raking her fingers through his hair in the near-darkness. "Sleep a while longer," she urges. "I'll wake you when we have to go."

Robin's only response is another sleepy grunt, and Regina chuckles as she heads for the bathroom.

He's still sound asleep when she emerges from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, and Regina can't bring herself to wake him. So she resets the alarm for 6:30, and liberates their spare set of keys from the hook by the door, leaving them on the nightstand over a note that reads _In case Emma and Henry are still asleep when you leave_.

When she sees him at 8:15, she doesn't ask for them back.

**.::.**

She doesn't expect to see Robin on Friday afternoon - she knows he planned on heading up to New Haven to collect Roland as soon as he finished work. So when she catches a glimpse of him through the pass-through at 2:30, she is surprised, but certainly not disappointed – at first.

She sheds her apron and pushes through the door to the front of the bakery, all smiles as she asks, "Come to get a snack for the road?" Her voice trails off slightly at the end when she gets a good look at him, sees the tense set of his jaw, the tightness of his scowl, the anger simmering just under the surface. Her smile fades away into a look of sympathetic disappointment, her head tilting slightly as she sighs, "Oh, Robin."

He's not getting Roland today; she can see it all over him.

He sucks in an irritated breath, huffs it out, looks askance, but he doesn't resist when she threads their fingers, follows her mutely as she leads him back into the kitchen.

Belle glances their way only briefly as she grabs a croissant from the bakery case, and says nothing.

Once they're in the semi-privacy of the kitchen, she turns and winds her arms up around his neck, drawing him in. His hands fall to her waist and grip there tightly, his head dropping forward so they're nearly cheek-to-cheek, his breath washing over her shoulder in heavy, controlled exhales. He's not angry, he's _livid_.

And rightfully so, she thinks, because this is happening _again_, and Regina burns with the unfairness of the whole thing. _How dare that bitch?_ she thinks, even though she doesn't know the circumstances this time, and knows Robin takes care not to speak ill of his ex-wife. But she doesn't have to be diplomatic - she's the new girlfriend, not the ex-husband, so _How dare that bitch?_

Regina rubs her palms over Robin's rigid shoulders, kneads the muscles there in a way she hopes will soothe him. "I get him tomorrow morning, I'm just _furious_ with her at the moment," he says, finally, his hands squeezing hard at Regina's hips for a moment before he releases them, stretches his fingers out flat, then relaxes them softly back to her body with a sigh.

"One night is better than none," Regina tries to placate, but it sounds trite and hollow even to her. Still, she feels him nod, and feels him suck in deep breath, let it out on a sigh, and then his hands are moving. One slides up to tangle in the base of her hair, making a mess of her ponytail, but she doesn't mind, she can fix it later. The other leads his arm into a snug hold around her back, his cheek shifting to rest against her. She tightens her hold on him, too, tucks her nose in against his neck and lets him take a minute to breathe, and hold on to her, and calm down.

By the time he murmurs, "So obviously our sleepover plan for the boys tonight will not be happening," he sounds calmer, more disappointed than irate.

Regina hums dismissively, tilting her head to press a kiss to his lips before telling him softly, "Don't worry about that. We can do it tomorrow night." She catches herself then, adds hastily, "Unless you'd rather have him all to yourself for the night. That's fine, too. I know you don't get much time together."

Robin shakes his head, loosening his hold on her ever so slightly. "No, tomorrow night is good. Roland is quite fond of Henry, and it's not as though I don't get to spend time with him when we're all together. I quite like watching our boys have a good time."

Regina likes the sound of that - our boys - and her lips curve whether she wants them to or not. "It is nice that they get along," she agrees. "At least that's one conflict we don't have to worry about. And truth be told, it might even be better to spend the night tomorrow. We can sleep in on Sunday morning," she muses warmly, "I'll make pancakes, or pumpkin waffles, and the boys can watch an irresponsible amount of cartoons. I won't have to sneak out before dawn to get to work. It'll be nice."

"Mm," he agrees, and then, "I'd like that. Although if you'd like to win Roland's heart, make those chocolate chip pancakes - and make him swear not to tell his mother, lest I get a lecture about feeding him dessert for breakfast."

Regina chuckles warmly, tells him, "Duly noted." Her gaze shifts up and back as Robin tugs at the elastic of her ponytail, drawing it out carefully until her hair falls. She pushes at the freed strands immediately, self-consciously - she'd put it up wet this morning, so it's kinked where the band had held it back. "Hey," she grouses, only a wee bit surprised when he hands the ponytail holder to her.

"I mussed it all up," he explains, and she'd known that, so she dismisses her hint of annoyance and takes a step back from him to draw her hair up and back again, winding the elastic around and around to secure it. "Could I stay for a bit and watch you work?"

She'd looked away for a moment, but she glances back at his request, at the soft, almost tentative way he's asked her. Irritation and hurt feelings are still emanating from him like aura, and she doesn't mind the company. "Of course," she agrees, adding, "On one condition."

His mouth draws back into a scowl as he assumes, "Don't get in your way?"

Regina shakes her head, smirks, and orders, "Coffee," tossing a pointed glance in Belle's direction. "Go grab us each a cup, and then pull up a stool."

Robin does as asked, but he lingers out there in the front - there's a lull now, and he ends up chatting with Belle. Something about the book she's reading. Regina listens absently with only a tiny tug of jealousy as they discuss themes and characters with a depth and understanding that Regina never had the chance to glean. She can hear the professor in him now, and the bibliophile, and she wonders if he'll ever direct that sort of attention at her. If she'll ever be able to give him reason to.

And then she puts the thought out of her mind, focuses on prepping cookie dough for Henry.

Robin returns a full twenty minutes later, with two coffees and an apology. He looks calmer now, though - lighter in a way he hadn't been when he'd left her, so she simply smiles, and shakes her head, and tells herself she has nothing to be envious of.

She almost makes herself believe it.

.::.

By Saturday, she has forgotten her brief flare of insecurity – and how can she not have, when she's spent half the day with her boyfriend and their sons. It's raining again - a cold, blustery November downpour that ruins their plans to take the boys up to Central Park. Robin and Roland show up soaking wet, a couple of drowned rats, so the day becomes about hot cocoa and cozy blankets, grilled cheese and tomato soup, Chutes and Ladders and Go Fish.

When evening comes, they turn on a movie and Roland cocoons himself in the papasan again, while Henry sprawls on his belly on the floor. Regina and Robin linger in the kitchen, Robin washing up their dishes from earlier as Regina throws together a batch of brownies. While the boys are distracted, they steal a few kisses, and then take turns scraping the remnants of brownie batter from the bowl with a spoon.

They're still standing there, Robin having just leaned over and quietly suggested something very devious they could be doing with said batter if the children weren't around, when Emma comes through the door with an expression on her face that Regina can't quite decipher. Almost apprehensive, but not quite. It makes more sense when Neal follows her in a moment later.

Regina's brows lift slightly. "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

"Hey, Regina," Neal greets, and that's when Henry's head whips toward the door, finally distracted enough to tear his attention from the movie.

"Neal!" he shouts, scrambling to his knees excitedly.

"Hey, kid," Neal returns, heading for the living area, and giving Henry something that's half high-five, half handshake.

"Are you guys back together?" Henry asks excitedly, looking from Neal to Emma, back and forth.

"Uh," Neal stalls with a slightly nervous chuckle. "Maybe we skip the tough questions for now, yeah?"

Henry frowns a little, but nods – this has all happened before, the on-again portion of their on-again, off-again – and Regina doesn't miss the way her little boy stuffs his hands into his pockets just the way Neal has. She hopes for the sake of her son that the answer to his question is yes.

"What're you guys watching?" Neal asks him, even though Woody and Buzz are plainly visible on the television. But it reminds Regina why she likes Neal – because he is here with Emma, once again trying to patch together their relationship, but he's well aware of how much Henry looks up to him, and it doesn't bother him in the slightest to give her son his sole focus for a few minutes. Neal settles down on the arm of the sofa as Henry tells him _Toy Story_ and then introduces him to Roland, while Emma retreats to the kitchen.

The blonde peers into the bowl on the countertop with interest before inquiring, "Brownies?"

Regina nods, then asks quietly, "Neal?"

Emma's shrug manages to be somewhere between nonchalant and awkward. "We ran into each other a couple nights ago, got to talking, decided to, y'know, see where things go." Regina nods again, but says nothing. Robin looks between them, obviously curious but not enough to open his mouth and butt in somewhere he doesn't likely belong. Regina has a feeling she'll be filling in some blanks for him later. When the silence stretches for another few moments, Emma tips her chin up slightly and asks, "You have something to say?"

Regina shakes her head slowly, turning her attention back to the bowl and scraping at the batter. "I'd ask you not to get Henry's hopes up, but I know Neal won't let him down even if this pans out. So no, nothing to say."

Emma's mouth draws into a scowl, hurt darkening her green eyes, and Regina realizes how that sounded even before her roommate's muttered, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Regina."

Regina sighs, insists, "That's not what I meant. I just-"

"Oh no, I got what you meant," Emma replies quietly, still miffed, and probably rightly so, but Regina has watched this dance for years. Six months on, three weeks off, two weeks back, nine months apart. Rinse, repeat.

"Emma…" she tries again, but she's struggling for words, and Robin seems to have decided this is definitely a conversation that is out of his purview, because he is inching away from them – taking the long way, nudging Regina toward the living room a pace so he can slide beside her, around and behind, and get away without coming between them. When they're alone, Regina tries again, "Emma, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You know I like Neal."

Emma's arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and she's dismissive but can't quite mask her anger when she mutters, "Yeah. Whatever."

Damnit. _Damnit_. How did this evening go so quickly from domestic bliss to hurt feelings? Regina reaches over, grips at one of Emma's hands as best she can with the blonde's arms still folded as they are. She makes a point to meet her eyes, to look as sincere as she can, when she tells her softly, "I do. I really hope this is the time it works. And I _am_ sorry for how that came out, it's just…" She glances to the living room, to Henry animatedly recounting their zoo outing from a few weeks ago to Neal, and then back. "He gets so excited when you guys get back together."

Emma's fingers twitch against her own, and then squeeze once before her arms unravel with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Which is why I wouldn't bring him here if this was just, y'know, a weekend thing. I think it might be different this time. We're both in a better place."

Regina nods, and offers a small smile of encouragement, before reaching for the bowl of brownie batter. "You want a spoon?" she offers - a peace offering. There's not a whole lot left, but enough for a few spoonfuls.

Emma's brows scrunch together as she makes a face, looking at Regina like she's positively silly, and then asks, "Who needs a spoon?" before swiping her finger along the edge of the bowl and bringing it to her mouth. She smirks at Regina as she licks the batter away, and the brunette knows that all is forgiven. Or at least forgotten, put behind them.

"Civilized people," Regina retorts, scraping a skinny ribbon of batter onto her spoon - she's already had plenty.

"Overrated," Emma says, before sighing appreciatively. "You didn't tell me they were chocolate peanut butter."

"You didn't ask," Regina points out with an arch of one brow.

For several minutes, they stand there sampling batter, until the bowl is practically licked clean and Regina has a sugar-induced headache brewing. By the time they join the boys in the living room, the movie has been swapped out for Mario Kart, Henry and Neal neck and neck for first and second place in one of the easier circuits, while Roland (now in his father's lap, Robin's hands over his to help him work the controls) trails far behind.

Emma takes the abandoned papasan, and Regina considers sliding into the space between Robin and the arm of the sofa, but decides it's not quite wide enough for her and settles on the floor instead, her shoulder against his knee.

Henry wins the circuit by a hair, and only because Neal conveniently happens to lose speed at the very last moment. Regina's lips quirk in a little smile - he'd let the boy win, and while they do try to make Henry earn most of his wins (he's more than capable, for this game in particular), she can't find it in her heart to blow his cover. Not with the way Henry is dancing in his seat triumphantly.

"Ha!" he teases Neal. "One more race left…" He sing-songs, "And I'm gonna _win_."

"Careful, champ," Neal warns. "Don't get too cocky – What is it they say? Pride cometh before a fall?"

Henry's "Bring it on," is almost a growl, so serious and challenging that it makes Regina stifle a laugh into her palm. _Boys_.

"I think there's too much testosterone in this room for me," Emma grumbles, and Regina meets her gaze with a sympathetic chuckle.

"We're definitely outnumbered now," she agrees, just as Roland squirms in his father's lap, knocking his knee against her shoulder. It's not enough to hurt, but it's it's enough to have Regina craning her neck to look up at them.

Roland is pushing at Robin's hand, telling him, "No, Daddy, I want to do it myself. I can play by myself."

"Are you sure?" Robin asks, but he withdraws his hands regardless, one falling to Roland's leg, the other finding Regina's hair and weaving through it lazily, then gripping, relaxing.

"Yeah, I can do it," Roland insists. "I'm a big kid."

"You are a big kid," Robin agrees gamely, even though it's not really true. At four, Roland is still very much a little munchkin, and an adorable one at that. Even more so as he adjusts his small hands on the controller, and looks at the screen with fierce determination, announcing that he's _gonna win this time, too_.

"Hey Emma, why don't you toss Regina that fourth controller?" Neal suggests, and Regina groans inwardly, thinks _No way in hell._ "We can really make Roland feel good about himself."

Regina's jaw drops indignantly as she makes a noise of offense. She looks to Neal and accuses, "Now that's just not fair. I'm not _that_ bad."

Henry winces sympathetically and says, "You kinda are, Mom," and when Emma chuckles she gets the distinct impression she's being ganged up on.

She's saved from having to make a defense, though, by the beeping of the timer. The brownies are done.

"If you'll all excuse me," she announces primly, pushing herself to her feet. "I have brownies to tend to."

"Coward," Neal calls back to her, and she tosses him a smirk, then threatens to deny him ice cream if he keeps calling her names. They play the last race as she's pulling brownies out of the oven and setting them on the stove to cool, pulling vanilla bean ice cream out and setting it on the counter to soften. Henry wins this time, too, but she's pretty sure he earns it, and when he hops up immediately, and whoops and does a little victory dance, she decides that perhaps she needs to have a conversation with her son about being a gracious winner. Especially considering Roland is still playing, trailing all the other characters by a wide margin.

He's going to come in last - won't even get to finish once that eleventh place player crosses the line, and she hopes it won't upset him too much. He's having trouble keeping straight on the track, but she can hear him say, "Daddy, am I doing good?"

"So good," Robin encourages him. "And all by yourself!"

"Yeah!" Roland cries excitedly, his cart veering to the side as he does. Regina's watching the other players on the track in the middle of the screen, watching them cross the line, 9, 10...11, and then the game ends itself and Roland lets out an upset little cry. Regina's heart clenches. "It didn't let me finish, Daddy!"

"I'm sorry, my boy," Robin soothes. "But you did such a good job playing."

But Roland doesn't seem to think so. His voice is sulky and sad when he says, "I lost."

It's Henry who speaks up next, urging, "It's okay. I lost a lot when I was first learning, too. You just have to play more, so you can practice and get faster."

_There's my boy_, Regina thinks, smiling warmly and sighing at a surge of love for her son. Her caring, thoughtful, perhaps-a-boastful-winner-but-still-kind son.

She glances at the brownies, knows they'll need several more minutes to cool enough to be cut - even if she is planning on having them warm and gooey and dripping with ice cream.

So she speaks up, offers, "Why don't we play a bit, Roland. Just you and me."

He twists on Robin's lap, turns onto his knees and peers over his father's shoulder at her. Then asks, "And Daddy?"

"Sure, Daddy, too," Regina agrees, taking a deep breath and heading back into the living room, beckoning for Henry's controller as Robin takes Neal's.

_Here goes nothing_, she thinks, because the truth is that, yes, she's really bad at this game, particularly when playing with the wheel, but she doesn't want Roland to feel like he's terrible, not when he's tried so hard, so she shoves down her pride and chooses her character.

It's a round that is much more well-matched than the one before had been - even Robin, who is undeniably the best of them, stays firmly in the middle of the pack. Regina doesn't have to try terribly hard to fall behind, but she makes sure not to pull _too_ far ahead of Roland, and twice she even lets him beat her at the last minute. He's only four, she tells herself. He could use the boost. It's not unfair to let him think he's won.

And when the circuit has finished (their team losing by a wide margin of points, due to her poor showing and Roland's lack of skills), and she turns to grin encouragingly at Roland, she finds Robin looking at her with so much weighted _affection_ that she thinks the whole thing was definitely worth it.

They abandon Mario Kart for the evening and turn their attention to brownies, and somewhere between Regina rising again to slide the still-warm pan into squares and dishing ice cream on top of the cut brownies in each of six bowls, the boys have declared their intention to turn the entire living room into a fort before the night is out.

"A big one!" Roland cries. "And we can **all** sleep in it, but no girls."

"Definitely no girls," Neal agrees and Emma gives him a look, her brows rising with surprise. Clearly this is a change of plans.

"You're sleeping with the kids?" she asks, and he nods, looks to a grinning Henry. Emma looks at Robin next. "What about you? You ditching your girlfriend for the kids, too?"

Robin nods soberly, telling her, "I'm afraid so. There's a fort to be built, and we men must stick together in such things. And then enjoy our handiwork. What good's a fort that no one sleeps in, after all."

Truth be told, they'd decided earlier that it was probably best if he took the sofa again. For Roland's sake – both to be closer to him in case he woke up in a still not-quite-familiar place, and to keep him from asking curious questions about _why_ his father might be sleeping in Regina's room.

As it turns out, Roland's "no girls" rule seems to extend to the fort building as well, so Regina and Emma shut themselves into their small bathroom, brushing their teeth, washing their faces, even taking the time to each slather on the pricey treatment mask that Regina bought weeks ago to treat herself but hasn't gotten around to using yet. They keep the door shut, Emma perching on the closed toilet while Regina sits on the edge of the tub, and they talk in hushed voices about Emma and Neal, about trying again, about how nice it is to just _be_, to have casual nights like this where there's plenty of distraction and no pressure to work everything out right that moment.

When they finally emerge, fresh-faced and baby soft, the living room has been transformed. The kitchen chairs have all been commandeered, and there are sheets and blankets tied to corners, wedged under heavy books on the entertainment center, tucked behind the sofa cushions. The boys are nowhere to be seen, but there's the distinct bright circle of a flashlight beam underpainting one of the thinner sheets, and she can hear Robin's voice, Roland's giggle.

"Don't stay up too late," Regina calls to them, and there's a collective grumble, and then Henry's _We won't, Mom_.

Doubtful, Regina heads to her own bedroom.

**.::.**

Whether the excitement of the day tired them out, or Robin and Neal actually insisted on a decent bedtime, she is not sure, but it's less than an hour later when there's a soft knock on her door. It cracks open before she can answer, Robin's smiling face peeking around, darkness beyond him.

She lifts one brow questioningly as he steps into the room, waiting until he closes the door behind him to ask, "What happened to not sleeping together tonight?"

"We're not," he assures softly, but he pads to her bed and sits next to her just the same. Regina tucks her bookmark into the copy of _Middlemarch_ she'd borrowed from Robin earlier in the week, sets it aside. "I just came to kiss you goodnight."

"I see," Regina says with a smile, shifting over to make some space for him. Robin slips under the covers and stretches out there, and Regina scoots down until they're eye to eye, then pulls him close and plants an eager kiss on his mouth. His arm comes around her and draws her flush to him, and she feels that little lick of heat that she always does when they're close like this. They trade lazy, languid kisses, his hand finding its way under the top of her pajamas and splaying against her, palm settling over her spine. He doesn't try for more, and she knows he's waiting on her, waiting for the all-clear to take things south again. Truth be told, she could give it to him. Her period is all but over, they could absolutely have sex, but they've agreed to stop using the condoms, and quite frankly she has plans to thoroughly enjoy the next time they have sex – without having to worry about keeping quiet for the kids in the other room.

So she'll wait -–they'll wait – just a few more days. Until she can get him alone, in private.

For now, she'll enjoy this, just kissing, legs tangled together, breath mingling, his body warm against hers. After a while, their kisses slow, and then stop, and Robin just lies next to her, playing idly with the ends of her hair and watching her face.

It makes her self-conscious, makes her feel stripped bare, so she frowns softly and asks, "What?"

"You let him win," Robin tells her, lips curving into a gentle smile.

"He needed the win," she replies quietly, fingers toying with the edge of his sleeve absently. "It's not something I make a habit of, mind you. Children need to learn how to lose and keep their heads up. But tonight was about fun. I didn't want him upset over something so silly."

He turns her in his arms then, urges her back to his front. His lips find her skin, a warm, damp kiss just behind her ear. "I love that you let him win. He was quite proud of himself."

"Then my humiliation was worth it," she sighs, settling more comfortably against him.

"Oh come now, you're not _that_ bad."

His arm slides around her belly, slips beneath her top again, and if it ends up cupping her bare breast beneath the fabric, well, neither of them mentions that. His thumb finds her nipple and strokes back and forth across it, slowly, almost absently, a caress for its own sake, not meant to lead them anywhere.

Still, it's enough to distract her, enough to make their conversation seem unimportant. Regina lets her eyes shut and breathes in, lifting her hand back to trail into his hair and twine there, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

They stay like that, his fingers on her skin, hers in his hair, until her nipple is stiff and sensitive and her arm starts to tingle, pins-and-needles prickling under her skin from being held in place too long.

She drops her arm with a sigh, and draws his out from under her shirt, weaving their fingers instead.

"Stay until I fall asleep?" she requests, her voice low and lazy. Robin nods, cuddles in closer somehow, then disentangles his fingers from hers and brings them to her arm, tracing soothing trails there, up and down her bicep, over along her forearm, wandering occasionally to her shoulder, her ribs.

It's that gentle touch that finally lulls her into sleep, and when he leaves her, she is entirely, blissfully unaware.


	7. Week Seven

"It's weird, right?" Neal asks, his voice low. "Seeing her all… couple-y like that?"

"You'll get used to it." Regina can almost see Emma's shrug, even with her back turned to them, even with Robin's frame behind hers, his chin on her shoulder, watching chocolate chip pancakes cook on the griddle.

"I don't know," Neal mutters, and Regina rolls her eyes and flips another pancake. "The whole making breakfast thing, I can live with – that's nothing new. But the canoodling while she does it, that's some Twilight Zone shit right there."

"I can hear you, you know," Regina finally speaks up, making sure her voice is loud enough to be heard and sharp enough to carry a warning. Particularly when she adds, "And watch your language. Kids are like little sponges, they soak up everything."

"Aw, come on, Regina, they can't hear us," Neal dismisses as Robin disentangles himself from her and leans against the countertop. She has a brief flash of memory, of the night she'd made dinner and he'd fucked her senseless in just that spot. She feels her cheeks heat, hopes the blush isn't noticeable, and nearly misses the rest of Neal's comment: "They're completely engrossed in their movie."

Regina glances over toward the boys – or toward their fort, anyway. It's still strung up across the living room, but they've arranged the sheets so the TV is visible from underneath, and Regina can hear "I Just Can't Wait to be King," coming from the speakers, can sort of, almost, see the shifting shapes and colors on the screen.

"Henry," she calls, and his head pops up from between two of the sheets. When he asks _Yeah?_, she questions, "What did Neal just say?"

Henry's glance flicks to Neal for the briefest of seconds, and Regina smirks, and knows he's about to betray her for Neal's sake. In this particular instance, she doesn't mind so much, and she trusts Henry, knows he might fib about this, but he won't lie about anything important.

Sure enough, he shrugs and says, "I don't know," and then, "I didn't hear him."

"He said 'shit!'" Roland calls from beneath the fort, and Emma nearly chokes on her coffee trying to stifle a laugh, while Robin scolds the boy mildly, tells him he knows better than to use that word, and threatens to rinse his mouth with soap if he swears again. Regina gives Neal her best I-told-you-so expression, lips pursed slightly, brows half raised.

Roland apologizes sulkily, then emerges from under the blankets in a crawl.

"That's just not fair," Neal mutters, looking to Emma. "How can they hear us under those blankets and over the movie?"

"Kids," Emma sighs. "They hear everything you don't want them to, and only half of what you do."

"Truer words," Robin mutters in agreement as Roland pushes to his feet and shuffles over to them. Regina can't help but grin down at his adorable footy pajamas – Henry insists he's too big for that style, now, but she's a sucker for those covered little feet.

"Regina," he says sweetly as he approaches her side, and she flips the last pancake and then sets aside the spatula, crouching down to his level.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm sorry I swored," Roland tells her, with the largest, most morose dark eyes she's ever seen.

"Swore," she corrects, automatically, a mother's reflex, and then: "It's alright." She smiles, then grows serious for a moment, giving his nose a soft tap with her index finger. "Just don't do it again. Smart little boys like you can find better words than that to use, don't you think?"

He puffs up a little, mollified and proud of himself as he nods sharply. "Yep." Then his gaze slides up, over, to the griddle where the pancakes are probably beginning to get a little _too_ brown. He presses his lips together, bounces a little on his heels, and has the hopeful face of a puppy begging for scraps. It's tempting, oh so tempting, but this isn't Regina's first rodeo.

"First of all, use your words," she tells him kindly, but firmly, when he doesn't ever ask, just looks at her, then the griddle, back again. "Second, no. You'll spoil your breakfast." His shoulders sag with defeat, but there's a smirk hidden somewhere in the way his lips purse with disappointment, his dimples flashing, eyes impish. He is so very much Robin's boy.

Robin chuckles knowingly from behind her, reminding the boy, "Breakfast is nearly ready. You can have a bit of juice if your belly is feeling empty. Unless…" He peers around Regina as she straightens and begins to hastily remove pancakes from the griddle. Sure enough, this batch is slightly past golden brown on the bottom. "...you're just trying to get some chocolate."

Roland's giggle gives away his guilt, and Robin laughs with him, stepping around Regina and scooping up the boy, tipping him upside down and tickling until he screeches and kicks. Regina narrowly avoids a flannel-covered foot to the head, grabbing it a few inches from impact with her free hand and shooting Robin a warning look. He gives a guilty little cough, turning Roland right side up again, and stage whispering, "We'd better stop before we get a time out for roughhousing in the kitchen."

Roland giggles again and nods, and Regina hides her smirk by turning to pour out another batch of pancakes.

"Daddy," she hears the little boy say, and for a moment she misses when Henry's voice was that young and sweet. Misses the way he used to call her _Mommy_ now that she is almost always _Mom_. "Can we watch the mermaid movie next? I like her seashells."

Regina turns at that, brows raised high, managing to tamp down her laugh but not her amused smirk. The seashells, huh?

Emma is coughing against a swallow of coffee again, Neal snickering into his own mug.

Regina can't help herself, it's out of her mouth before she can stop it: "Someone takes after his father."

Neal snorts into his cup, and Robin flounders, manages, "It's not - it's nothing like that. He just likes purple, don't you, my boy?"

Roland nods avidly, tells Regina, "It's my favorite!"

"I see," she says, glad her comment sailed clean over his head. "Well, I think one movie is enough for the morning, so no, no Little Mermaid today. But maybe next time." Roland sighs a little, but nods, and then she's telling him to go get Henry, that if he's really hungry, they can start on their pancakes now while she cooks the rest.

"Yeah, I take it back," Neal muses, studying Regina before declaring, "She's not that different after all."

Regina just glowers and tosses a dish towel at his face.

**.::.**

It takes a lot to get Regina Mills to leave work early on a Monday afternoon, but she does it this week. Emma is in the midst of a new case, one that is looking to be particularly troublesome and taking up much of her time, so Regina knows she cannot beg off picking up Henry from school in order to do something as frivolous as get laid. But leaving early, that she _can_ do. Doesn't do often, but can manage if she times her day correctly, and she's been thinking about this since this morning, so her day has been excellently timed.

She leaves the bakery in Belle's capable hands at 2:15, and makes the quick trip to Robin's. He greets her with a smile and a, "Well, this is a pleasant surprise," holding the door open for her without hesitation. She lets him get out, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this early in the day?" but her answer is more action than talk.

She shoves him up against the now-closed door and crushes her mouth to his, pressing her torso flush against him. It takes him only a half-second to catch up with her, and then he's moaning eagerly, palming her rear with one hand and squeezing, the other going to her hair and tangling, holding her to him as he pushes them off the door, pushes himself deeper into her mouth and starts to stumble them toward the sofa.

But Regina doesn't want that, not again, she wants that nice soft bed beneath them this time. She shifts her arm until her purse falls to the floor with a thunk, her other hand already tugging at the hem of his shirt when she turns her head out of the kiss and gasps, "Bed," steering him in the other direction. "I want the bedroom," she manages, and he is more than happy to oblige.

He mutters a "Yes, ma'am," into her jaw, then nips there, and for a moment they're all stumbling feet and seeking hands, toeing off shoes and yanking off shirts. By the time they reach the bed she's bare to the waist, her jeans open, hanging low on her hips, one of Robin's hands attempting to shove them down while the other tugs at her nipple.

He hasn't fared any better - she's pushing his slacks to the floor, too, and takes advantage of the moment that he gets tangled up in them to use his momentum against him and spin them so he ends up sitting on the bed. Her jeans are gone a moment later, and a second after that she's straddling him, kissing hungrily.

He moans into her mouth when she grinds her hips down against his, nothing but lace and cotton between where she's already wet and he's already hard. One of his hands moves to her hip and squeezes, urges her to grind against him again, while the other palms one of her breasts, gropes for her nipple and finds it, squeezes firmly enough to have her head falling back on a gasp and breaking their kiss. Robin's mouth lands on her neck, and he grazes his teeth against her in a light bite, then sucks hard enough against her pulse that she worries vaguely she'll have to explain hickeys to Henry, before he runs his tongue over her, from collar to jaw in a way that makes her shiver.

Her fingers thread into his hair, urging his head back as she crushes their mouths together again, feeling bold and powerful, taking the lead this time, and Robin lets her. Acquiesces under her touch, lets her dominate their kisses, lets her wind an arm around his back and force him even closer, until their torsos are pressed tightly, skin-to-skin, hips still rocking and grinding.

One of his hands is trapped between them, her nipple still caught between thumb and forefinger, and he doesn't have a whole lot of room or leverage, but he keeps giving her these light little squeezes, in time with every downward stroke of her hips against his, and she feels pleasure bloom in waves, wants more of it, reaches back for his other hand and draws it around to her front. But Robin shakes his head, frees his hand from her grasp and reaches for her rear, hoisting her up onto her knees until he can lean forward and catch her neglected nipple with his lips, sucking it in harshly. Regina cries out and quakes, and presses her hips into his belly for whatever little friction she can glean from him.

His name slides out of her on a moan, her fingers finding purchase at his shoulders and pressing hard. When one particularly firm squeeze against her nipple makes her hiss harshly, he switches, swaps fingers for tongue and licks to soothe the ache, adjusts his hold on her before rolling the other nipple between his fingers. It's slick with spit, slips from his grasp, and Robin lets out a little growl and then the world is spinning, shifting, and she's flat on her back on the mattress, breathing heavily as Robin moves over her and bends to his task again.

He licks and sucks and nips, one hand sliding down her belly, slipping beneath lace and giving her clit a cursory rub. It's firm and quick, just enough to have her crying out and bucking into his touch before his fingers move further down, two of them slipping into her easily, thrusting, testing, searching for that sensitive spot. And then he finds it and Regina's head snaps back on a loud moan, her thighs parting wider for him, her back arching, breast pressing into his face. He gives her a little nip and her back flattens out again with an exhale, her own hands skimming up her torso, cupping herself, giving him easier access to the breast he's been teasing and finding the other with her own fingers, twisting her nipple shamelessly and biting at her lower lip.

Robin moans and presses his forehead against her sternum, then drops a kiss over her heart, swirling his tongue there before lifting his head and murmuring, "God, yes. Do that, lovely." Their eyes lock and she feels a little spasm of arousal in her belly at the unbridled _want_ she sees on his face. His voice is a low rumble when he asks, "Can I watch you?" and she digs her teeth harder into that bottom lip and nods, shifts her hand so she's gripping both nipples and holds his gaze as they work together to whip her into a frenzy. He steals furtive glances down her body now and then, at her breasts, her hips, but mostly he watches her face, watches her eyes, and Regina feels her cheeks flame but she doesn't hold back a single flicker of expression or noise of pleasure. When her moans trigger his own, she thinks fleetingly that she will never tire of how turned on he gets by _her_ being turned on.

His fingers slow for a moment and then stop, and she whimpers her disappointment, frowns at him. But he just smiles, bites that lower lip of his and works a third finger in with the other two, her jaw falling slack before he starts pumping them into her again, and then she can't meet his eyes anymore. Her own squeeze shut, her head tipping back again, eager, heady moans tumbling from her lips. Her fingers have gone slack against her breasts, giving herself a little rub or tug whenever she remembers, whenever she is not distracted by the feel of his fingers inside her, pressing over and over into just the right spot, making her thighs quake and her belly quiver. "Please–" she gasps, "My–oh!" and "Lick my–"

She's stumbling over her tongue, can't quite make her words string together coherently, but he gets the message and scoots down the bed, yanking her panties down and off. He drapes an arm over her hips, slips those three fingers back into her and brings his tongue to her clit. It's over in seconds, heat rushing up under her skin from where he's licking and then sucking, rushing up her belly, past her breasts, she feels it prickle up her skin until she has goosebumps and then explode with a fierce surge of pleasure, that arm over her hips keeping her in place for him as her torso tightens and scrunches, and she all but screams, her own blunt nails dragging against her skin and leaving dull, red trails in their wake.

She's still catching her breath when he crawls up between her thighs, reaching between them to angle himself for her sex, but she stops him with a flat palm to his shoulder, a shake of her head and a breathy _mm-mm_. He tries very hard (and almost successfully) to hide the flicker of disappointment on his face before he asks, "Condom?"

Regina swallows against the dryness in her throat, and shakes her head again, then lets her lips curl up in a smirk. "No," she assures, giving his shoulder a little shove. "But you're always on top." That smirks spreads into a grin, one he answers with his own after she orders, "My turn."

Robin chuckles and flops eagerly down to the mattress beside her, reaching for her and telling her he has absolutely no objection to that plan as she shifts to straddle him. He looks her up and down, runs his palms along her belly, her sides, and Regina watches his face as she reaches between them, gives him one slow stroke (he swallows heavily, lips parting, breath shallow in anticipation), then guides him to her and begins to sink down onto him slowly. He lets out a heavy exhale, fingers flexing where they've settled on her hips, and she watches his Adam's apple bob, revels in the low groan that leaks from him. When he's all the way inside, when they're sealed tightly together, she leans forward, settles her elbows on either side of his head and kisses him deeply.

Robin's arms wrap around her, palms warm against her back, and he lets out a soft moan when she rocks her hips shallowly. One hand settles at the base of her spine, leverage for when he pushes himself up into her. She breaks their kiss, nudges her nose against his, and asks teasingly, "Better?"

"You have no idea," he groans, urging her into another slow slide against him, around him. He inhales and bites his lip, and that's no good, she thinks. She should be biting that for him, and so she kisses him again, until he releases it, and does just that. Sucks at that bitten lower lip, then gives it a sharp little nip with her teeth. He chuckles into the air between them, and Regina grins at him, then pushes up until she's sitting. His hands slide toward her hips again, and she meets them there, weaves their fingers, and then begins to move up and down atop him. Now, it's her turn to watch, lashes fluttering at the delicious feel of him inside her, but still she manages to keep her gaze on his face, sees the way he watches her breasts bounce with each thrust, the way he keeps looking between her thighs, watching them come together and apart. She doesn't rush, even though the minutes left before she has to leave are rapidly dwindling. She steals a glance at his bedside clock, and picks up the pace just slightly, enjoying the soft groan her new rhythm draws out of him.

He meets her thrust for thrust, their joined fingers pressed to her hipbones, pushing her down against him as he pushes up into her, making them come together harder, the pleasure just that little bit sharper. When he disentangles one of their hands, and brings his fingers down to rub at her clit, she gasps and moves a little faster, a little harder. Then his other hand peels out of hers, and reaches for her breast, and Regina leans forward a bit, bracing her palms against the wall over his head. It gives her better leverage, makes her easier for him to reach, and the shift in angle is surprisingly rewarding. She moans loudly, unexpectedly, and his fingers find her nipples, his other hand still rubbing at her clit.

Her voice trembles this time when she lets out his name, and she pushes down and back against him, fucks him harder - fucks him for real, now, none of this lazy enjoyment of each other. Now it's all rutting hips and gasping groans, her clit dragging against his fingers with every thrust, his neck craning so he can kiss whatever part of her he can reach while his fingertips pluck at nipples still sensitive from his earlier attentions.

She wasn't sure she'd come again, wasn't entirely worried about it after how intense the first orgasm had been, but she feels it building now, the triple stimulation making her thighs feel liquid and hot (if she ignores the burn of muscles unused to this particular workout). She mutters something about more, about harder, and Robin's hips angle up with more force as she uses the wall to push back harder, and _oh_ that is perfect, that is just what she needs, so she squeezes her eyes shut again and takes, takes, takes, just like that, again and again, until she's scratching her nails against the white-painted walls, and crying out, Robin moaning tightly beneath her, trying to hold on, to hold out for her, and he manages, but just barely, she can hear his desperate, relieved groans as she finally comes hard, his name on her lips, over and over.

With trembling thighs and a pounding heart, she hoists herself off of him and settles down along his side, weaving their legs, pillowing her head against his chest. She can hear his heartbeat, quick as her own but beginning to slow, and she lets her eyes shut for just a moment – only one – she cannot afford to get too comfortable. His arms come around her loosely.

Robin chuckles, the sound reverberating under her ear, so Regina tips her head up to look at him, finds him smiling at her. Before she gets a chance to ask him why, he simply says, "That was a fine hello."

It takes a moment – but only one – before Regina huffs a laugh, realizing she hadn't so much as uttered a greeting before jumping his bones. "Sorry about that," she chuckles, but he shakes his head and squeezes her a little more tightly.

"Oh, believe me, you need never apologize for _that_," he assures, shifting then, so he can reach her mouth and kiss her lazily. She kisses him back, and then again, some more, but before they can get too caught up in each other again, she turns her head away with a sigh.

"I need to go meet Henry," she tells him, frowning her disappointment.

Robin laughs warmly again and tells her there's something that feels wrong about sending her off to her young son all debauched and sweaty. He trails a finger along her sweat-slicked spine, proving his point, and there are other things - a slippery wetness between her thighs where he's leaking out of her, for one.

"I could really use a shower," Regina announces, frown deepening, and Robin tilts his head as if he might be able to see the clock on the other side of her – a ridiculous pipe dream.

"Do you have time?" he asks, and she sighs and rolls, looks at the clock, and tells him she has five minutes.

"So, yes, if you behave yourself. No, if you plan on joining me."

Robin grins, crosses his arms behind his head, and vows, "I will stay right here in this bed. I promise. You go."

Regina sits with a grunt, then turns and presses her lips to his, "Dinner," another kiss, "Tomorrow," she tells him.

"Of course," he agrees easily, always easily, and she takes one last, deep, tongue-filled kiss from him before rising on knees still a little jelly-like.

It's the fastest shower she's ever taken, but when she meets Henry outside of school, she looks perfectly presentable, and not at all like she's just come from a mid-afternoon booty call.

**.::.**

It's unusual for Regina to have any reason to visit the front of the bakery during the first hour of business, but at half past six on Tuesday morning she hears Ruby call her name.

"There's someone here for you," she calls back, and Regina abandons the batch of mini pies she'd been prepping (sour cream apple crumb - now officially moved from daily special to regular menu due to popular demand). She wipes her hands, shrugs out of her apron and gives herself a cursory check for any stray ingredients clinging to her skin before heading out front.

She couldn't be more surprised to see who awaits her there.

"Ms. Blanchard," she greets warmly, if a bit confused. Henry's teacher (his favorite of all the teachers he's ever had, the way he tells it) is standing at the edge of the bakery case, a pixie of a woman with short, dark hair and a kind smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I could ask you a favor," the other woman requests sweetly. "For Henry's class."

Regina's "Of course," is automatic, a pang of regret chasing her words immediately when she realizes she may have just roped herself into something blindly. "If I can, that is."

She leads Ms. Blanchard to one of the tables, urges her to sit. "I hope you didn't go far out of your way to meet with me," Regina tells her apologetically, adding, "My phone number is on the parent contact sheet, is it not?"

"Oh, it is," Ms. Blanchard assures her, but she's shaking her head - a no to the out-of-the-way part of the question, Regina realizes, when the teacher points to the tall, handsome man heading toward them, two hot cups in hand and a to-go bag looped over his fingers. "My boyfriend lives in the neighborhood; it was no trouble stopping by." She looks suddenly stricken. "I hope _you_ don't mind. I shouldn't have just barged in on-"

Regina waves a hand to cut her off, smiling warmly and dismissing with, "It's fine. Believe me, I'll welcome any excuse to sit for a few moments."

The boyfriend has joined them now – or, at the very least, has set Ms. Blanchard's drink in front of her and released the bag from his wrist, settling it on the edge of the table. Ms. Blanchard wastes no time before making introductions, gesturing between them. "Ms. Mills, this is my boyfriend, David Nolan. David, this is Regina Mills, Henry Stabler's mom."

David had been kindly neutral before, but he brightens at the mention of Henry, saying, "Oh, I've met Henry. He's a great kid."

He's holding out a hand for Regina to shake, and she does, but not without a slight lift of her brow and a, "You've met Henry?"

"David works for an animal shelter," Ms. Blanchard explains. "He came in one day to talk to the students about the importance of kindness and helping those in need – even the animals."

"Ah," Regina acknowledges with a nod. "I remember the flyer." She eyes David with a hint of playful resentment. "So you're the reason my son asked for two months straight if we could adopt a puppy?"

David smiles at that, a little sheepishly. "Do I owe you an apology?"

"He's let it go for now, so you're off the hook," Regina tells him, gesturing to the empty chair behind him and urging, "Sit. Unless you two are in a hurry…?"

Ms. Blanchard shakes her head, and puts down the drink she'd been sipping. "Not too much of one, no. But we're getting sidetracked."

"Yes," Regina recalls. "The favor."

With a nod, Ms. Blanchard says, "I'm sure you know about the Thanksgiving celebration we're having in class next week." Regina nods - she does. Each child is supposed to bring in a representation of something they're thankful for to talk about in class. Sort of a show-and-tell of gratitude. "Well, I was hoping to have some sort of treat for the kids, but we're not allowed to bring in anything homemade – school policy. I could get something from the grocery store, but they're so rarely any good, and I was hoping for something representative of the season, but not full of orange food coloring or preservatives. I thought maybe… you could bake something?" Her face is ever hopeful, and Regina is suddenly struck by how _young_ she must be. She can't be any older than Belle, can't be past her mid-twenties. Or maybe she just looks young for her age, who knows. "I'd pay for it, of course, and since you own a business and you're subject to all the health codes, it's not technically homemade."

"Not a problem," Regina assures her. "I'd love to."

She already has a heavy load of special orders for Thanksgiving week, but surely she can take a few minutes out of her day to throw something together.

Ms. Blanchard's smile is wide and easy as she insists, "Thank you so much, Ms. Mills. It doesn't have to be anything fancy. Cookies or bars, something you can whip up quickly. I don't want to put you out."

"How many students?" Regina asks, knowing the ballpark number, but if this is an order, she wants to be sure.

"Thirty-three," the other brunette tells her, and Regina cringes inwardly at the slowly burgeoning class sizes her son has been subjected to. Last year, it had been thirty-one, the year before that only twenty-nine. She misses the kindergarten days, when she felt reasonably certain he was getting the attention he ought to. "And it's a nut-free classroom."

"Oh, believe me, I know," Regina chuckles, sparing a glance for David so he will not feel completely like the third wheel he is. "Henry loves peanut butter."

"Me too," Ms. Blanchard sighs a bit forlornly. "But we do what we have to for the kids to be safe. It won't be a problem?"

"Not at all," Regina assures. "I'll probably do some pumpkin bars, something that can easily be sliced into reasonably small portions. I'll send a batch with Henry that morning."

"Perfect," Ms. Blanchard agrees. "Should I pay you now?"

"It would probably be easiest," Regina reasons, and they talk prices and payment for a moment, Ms. Blanchard handing over her credit card for Regina to take behind the counter. Regina moves to stand, but pauses, and asks, "How's he doing? Henry? I know we talked about his math skills during his conference a few weeks ago…"

Ms. Blanchard brightens, something Regina wasn't sure she could do considering how sunny her disposition already seems to be. "Improving," she tells her. "He's really working hard, and I can tell he's practicing more at home."

"He is," Regina assures with a smile, thinking of Robin and Henry huddled over math worksheets, working problems backward and forward until they make sense. "It's not his strongest subject, but he really is working hard."

"It shows," the teacher tells her, and Regina feels a surge of pride even before she adds, "You should be very proud of him."

"I am," Regina agrees, pushing to her feet and telling the couple she'll just be a moment, before she retreats behind the counter to run the credit card.

She heads back to the kitchen after all is paid for, with a smile on her face and a strong sense of satisfaction. It's so rare she gets to be involved in Henry's school day, even rarer that her particular brand of expertise can be utilized in the process. For once, she doesn't feel relegated to the role of homework cop, and it feels good.

**.::.**

"The prodigal daughter returns," Regina announces, as she unlocks the front door and lets in her AM help on Wednesday morning. It's not Ruby today, but Ashley. Fresh-faced, nineteen, the youngest of her girls. She'd hired her straight off-the-boat (or plane, as it were) a year ago, with the assurance that she could be flexible with hours for the aspiring actress. Six months ago, she'd lost Ashley to her big dreams – a half-year contract with Disney cruise lines.

"Welcome back, Cinderella," she teases the girl, closing the door behind her to keep out the chill. "I know it's not a luxury cruiseliner, but I do hope you'll find the workplace satisfactory."

Ashley laughs softly and shakes her head, "It's good to be back," she assures. "Believe me. And I can't thank you enough for giving me hours so quickly."

"Oh, I assure you, it was not a hardship," Regina tells the girl, leading her through the kitchen into the back office, letting Ashley hang her hat and coat and scarf on the hooks there. "I'm sure Ruby is thrilled to give up those Friday mornings, and I know Belle is glad to have Sundays to herself again."

"Ruby was pretty excited," Ashley agrees. She's staying with Ruby, for now, anyway – Regina knows that much. "She's already planning a Thirsty Thursday bar crawl for tomorrow night."

Regina chuckles, shakes her head, and mutters her lack of surprise, and, "Oh, to be young again." When Ashley insists that Regina isn't that old, Regina resists the urge to point out that by Ashley's age, she was a mother and a would-be war widow. No point in bringing the whole morning down.

"So, what's new around here?" the blonde asks, and Regina assures her that not much has changed. She observes, chatting, catching up, while Ashley counts in her till, fills the pitchers for milk and cream, climbs onto a stool and fills the empty Pie of the Day space with banana cream at Regina's instruction. It's an old routine, nothing new to it, and when Regina returns to the kitchen and catches the sound of Ashley singing softly along with the sound system, her voice polished and clear, it feels a bit like she's never been gone.

Some things _are_ new, though, and Regina doesn't consider them until Emma texts at 8:10 to tell her that Henry has been safely deposited at school. Robin will be here momentarily, and it occurs to her that he has never known a Forbidden Fruit bakery without Ruby to greet him in the morning. She hadn't mentioned Ashley to him, hadn't known she was back in town until Sunday night, and Monday, well... Monday she'd had other more important things to do with her mouth than talk, and they'd had to rain check last night's dinner plans when Henry had complained of a sore stomach and wanted Regina all to himself.

So she situates herself where she can see the door via the pass-through, takes the opportunity to sip at her coffee and relax for a moment, and awaits his arrival.

The bell over the door jingles at 8:12, and he walks in with his attention on his cell phone, fingers skimming over the surface in what is no doubt a text message as he takes his place at the end of the line. Ruby is friendly, a talker, but she's also efficient, and her line always moves quickly. For all her ease of routine, Ashley has lost some of her muscle memory, and there are enough regulars who remember her from the spring that she has dawdled a bit catching up with people (something Regina will have to talk to her about if it slows things much more). So there is a line, three people before him, in fact, but he seems unperturbed by this. And then he looks up – up to the menu board, to the special of the day, and he frowns (banana cream is not his favorite; today, he will go for the lemon curd, or maybe that sour cream apple crumb now that it's there every day). And then he looks down, two women in front of him now, and neither very tall, and Regina watches him freeze. And blink. And blink again.

She's smirking, can't help it. He looks momentarily lost, like perhaps he's stepped into the wrong storefront and not noticed it, but of course he hasn't, because he knows the interior like the back of his hand. He looks beyond Ashley, then, to the pass-through, and Regina's eyes lock with his.

He tilts his head curiously, a question there - who is this?

Regina's smirk widens into a full smile and she heads for the kitchen door, breezes through it as he steps off the line and moves toward her. They meet at the edge of the bakery case, and Regina leans her shoulder into the wall, Robin mirroring her.

"What happened to Ruby?" he asks, reaching for Regina's fingers automatically, weaving them with his own (his hands are cold; she has to suppress the urge to scold him about neglecting his gloves again).

"She's home, sound asleep, I'm sure," Regina tells him, tilting her head toward the blonde behind the counter. "Ashley worked here until the summer; she's been off–" she puts on a slightly dramatic air when she finishes, "pursuing her dreams. But now she's back, so you'll have someone new to flirt with in the mornings a few days a week."

Robin's mouth curves into a smirk, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles, and he leans in closer, tells hers, "The only person I come here to flirt with in the mornings is you, lovely."

From anyone else it would feel like a line, but she knows he means it, so she contains her reaction to a smiling roll of her eyes, and a muttered, "Stop it."

Ashley is still helping the woman who had been in line in front of Robin, chatting away about something or other, so Regina releases his fingers and asks, "Lemon or apple?"

His head tilts with a look of amusement at her presumption, brows lifting slightly. "And if I said cherry?"

"I'd say you were being intentionally difficult, instead of simply indulging that little thrill you feel over how well I've come to know you – or at the very least, your breakfast preferences."

"And how would you know about that little thrill?" he asks, taking another small step closer to her, much closer than she's entirely comfortable with him being outside the semi-privacy of the kitchen.

But she's not the type to back down, so Regina stays rooted where she is, tips her chin up to look him in the eye a little better, and says softly, "You know how."

For a moment, they just smile at each other like idiots, and then he ducks his head in closer, closer, their lips almost touching before he murmurs, "Apple," and then drops a brief smooch onto her mouth.

Regina laughs, pushing him a step back with a hand on his chest and shaking her head, then moving to grab him a mini sour cream apple crumb and a large dark roast. She doctors it for him, from the fresh carton of half and half in the fridge, before handing the order back to him, and taking the bills he hands her in return.

"Keep the change," he tells her insistently, and she notices he has given her several dollars more than enough to pay for his order, and wonders if he does that every day with Ruby and Belle, too. She turns to hand the money to Ashley, and finds the younger girl eyeing them with a knowing smile.

Regina fights the urge to roll her eyes again, simply straightens her spine and introduces the two, then sends Robin on his way with his breakfast.

"Nothing new around here, huh?" Ashley teases once Robin is out the door, and Regina shrugs, turning back toward the kitchen with a sly smile.

"Well, maybe one thing."

**.::.**

Robin texts her later that afternoon, telling her he wants to cook for _her_ for a change, and asking if she can find a sitter for Henry tomorrow night, since Emma is still pulling all sorts of strange hours on her current case. The idea of kicking back and letting someone else do all the cooking for once thrills her so much that she's barely clicked SEND on her enthusiastically affirmative reply before she's dialing Neal. It takes a promise of her leaving a batch of apple cider donuts for them (she's fairly certain he would have agreed even without them, but she's willing to be used this once), but he agrees to spend the night at her place with Henry. Regina goes to bed that night very much looking forward to Thursday.

Their evening starts off on the wrong foot and only gets worse.

He opens the door with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, tension pulsing around him like an aura. When she asks him what's wrong, he tells her nothing, not to worry about it, that he's been texting with Marian and she's being difficult about his next visit with Roland (Thanksgiving, Regina knows, and she wonders not for the first time what the hell his ex-wife's problem is, and how can she dream of pulling this crap on a _holiday_ of all visits). But he says he doesn't want to talk about that, just wants to focus on their evening, and he ushers her in, hands her a glass of wine he'd already poured for her, and asks her to give him a few moments to finish everything.

Regina is fairly certain what he wants is a few minutes to get his steaming temper under control, so she takes the wine with a nod and keeps to the living room, letting him have his space. He's procured large, plush cushions from somewhere and situated them next to the coffee table (it occurs to her for the first time, then, that he actually has no proper dining table to speak of), which he's set with a pair of maroon placemats, silverware, two skinny taper candles in mismatched holders burning on the far side. It's all terribly romantic and she hopes he's able to put aside his irritation for the sake of their evening – either that or talk it all out with her, let her help soothe him somehow.

But if he's trying to put it out of his mind, she will, too. She can hear him in the kitchen, hears a short clatter and then a ripe, hissing curse.

"Everything alright?" she calls, and he practically growls back his _Fine_ and then sighs heavily, and Regina thinks putting the Marian issue aside may be a pipe dream. Still, she stays where she is and wanders the perimeter of the room, perusing his bookshelves and nursing her Cabernet. It's not the first time she's browsed his impressive collection, but the shelves are crammed so full she has yet to read every spine. Today she notices a small cluster of what seems to be identical books at the bottom corner of one shelf. They're paperbacks, with deep purple spines, thick but not daunting. Six of them in a row, _True Love's Kiss: Myth, Magic, and Meaning in Fairy Tales_ by… Robin Locksley, PhD. Regina blinks, sets her glass down on the protruding lip of the shelf and eases a copy of the book free. Sure enough, there on the back is a picture of Robin – an incredibly handsome picture of him, full-color, with those piercing blue eyes and that shadow of stubble on his jaw.

She frowns. She had no idea he was a published author; he had never mentioned writing a book. The doctorate she knew about – it's nearly impossible to get a faculty teaching position without one – so she supposes it shouldn't come as a surprise that he has a book. A nonfiction, academic book in his field of study. Still, it makes her wonder what else she doesn't know about him, chips away at the satisfaction of yesterday's insistence that she knew him so well. Sure, she knows how to make his coffee, but she didn't know _this_, she doesn't know where he did his undergrad, where he lived before Bleecker and Grove. She doesn't know all that much about the years before his divorce, the years he spent married to the woman who seems to have caused him nothing but near-weekly headaches since she's known him. She doesn't know what it was that came between them, and doesn't know what it is at the root of the problems they're having now. And that's been fine with her up until now, but she suddenly feels like he's peppered with voids, blanks in his history that she wants to color in.

She turns the book over in her hands, fans the pages, flips to the title page and stares at his name, turns another page to see the publication date - 2011. Roland would have been one. There's a dedication page staring up at her, and she tries, she _tries_ not to let her eyes drift to the right, but sure enough, they do, and there in italics is _For my Marian, may our kisses remain forever true._ Something twists in her belly, an uncomfortable feeling she's yet to associate with Robin, and she snaps the book shut, wishes she hadn't picked it up in the first place.

And of course, that is the moment Robin chooses to walk in the room, carrying two plates piled with marinated chicken breasts and salad and roasted vegetables. She stands there, book in hand, a scowl tugging down the corners of her mouth, and he freezes. It only lasts a moment, just a pause, before he is bending to place the plates on those maroon placemats, asking her in a way she's sure is meant to be teasing, "Is there something about my book you find distasteful?"

"I didn't know you _had_ a book," she replies, and it comes out frostier than she'd meant it to. She slips the book back alongside its fellows on the shelf while he frowns and takes two steps toward her. Regina reaches for her wine and sips while he closes the rest of the distance.

"You didn't?" he asks, and the scowl she'd just sipped away returns.

"How would I? You've never mentioned it."

"I didn't realize it hadn't come up before," he explains simply, lifting his hand to her hair (she wore it down, for him, because she knows he loves the feel of it between his fingers, and she loves the way his blunt nails rake along her scalp when it's free and loose, and they're naked and lazy). And then he teases, "Although, isn't it common practice for you ladies to Google all your new love interests? To ensure we don't have pasts full of criminal convictions or very poor selfie choices?"

Regina just rolls her eyes.

Robin finally cottons on the the fact that she is actually troubled over all this (although Regina still can't quite put her finger on why it bothers her so much), and asks, "Does it upset you for some reason?"

"The book?" she asks, and he nods. She thinks of the dedication, and sips her wine again, flushes away the bad taste his absolutely-warranted endearments have left on her tongue and replaces them with the richness of Cabernet. "No, it's not the book."

"But it's something?"

Air leaves her lungs in a soft sigh, and her head shakes back and forth. "We fit so well into each other's lives, I forget sometimes how much we still don't know about each other. Or, how much I don't know about you, anyhow."

"What would you like to know?" he asks her, and Regina has her answer ready, on the tip of her tongue. She knows perhaps she shouldn't ask, but she does anyway.

"What's going on with Marian?"

Now Robin is the one sighing, and pointing out, "That's current events, not history."

"So tell me the history. Tell me _your_ history," Regina counters. Robin exhales and reaches for her wine, eases it from her fingers, takes a sip – his own glass is still in the kitchen. "I know the basics, but you've always been very polite about what happened between the two of you. I think we're past polite at this point, don't you? Especially if she's going to be pissing you off on a regular basis."

"Is this really how you'd like to spend our night alone?" he asks her. "Talking about my ex-wife?"

"Yes," Regina tells him plainly. "Tell me about your true love."

Robin's gaze flicks to the books, his mouth thinning into a line for a moment, and she knows he knows she's read his touching dedication. Suddenly it feels like an invasion, like she's poking around somewhere she ought not to be, but before she can take the words back, he's telling her, "Fine. Just let me get my drink," and headed back toward the kitchen.

"Robin," she says when he's three steps away from her, and he stops, looks back. "Twenty minutes," she tells him, making an effort to keep her voice soft and warm. "Twenty minutes of history, and then nothing but the present. How's that sound?"

He gives her a smile, small but genuine, and nods. "That's fair, I suppose." He urges her to take a seat at the table before her supper goes cold, then retreats into the kitchen again.

By the time he returns with his own glass and the rest of the bottle, Regina is settled on her cushion, boots off and tucked nearby, legs curled underneath her. Robin sits on the cushion next to her and refills her nearly-empty glass, then reaches for his fork, and takes a few bites of dinner in silence while Regina does the same.

She doesn't push, because she's unsure if they should be venturing into this territory at all. It was her idea, sure, but that doesn't mean it was wise, especially when he's already upset to begin with. So she doesn't push, but after several minutes, he offers.

"You know we met at Cornell, during our post-graduate studies," he says to her, and she nods. "She graduated a year ahead of me and moved to the City, and eventually she ended up teaching at Wellesley. As an adjunct at first, and then faculty."

"What does she teach?" Regina asks, because he has never mentioned and she has never asked.

"Classics," he answers, and Regina wishes she'd kept her mouth shut. Classics. Of course. He was married to a woman who studied the long-dead pillars of intellectual thought and society. The foundations of the cultured world. She imagines Marian in a home full of the same homey dark wood built-ins that Robin has, surrounded by exquisite sculptures and thick tomes in dead languages, and wonders where this low burn of jealousy is coming from. (If she thought very hard, she would be able to acknowledge it was not so much jealousy that had her shifting uncomfortably on her cushion, but that niggling feeling of not-enough that creeps up and nips at her every now and then.)

"We had a few overlapping courses while we pursued our doctorates, and things progressed from there. She moved here, and I followed. I taught as an adjunct for a time as well, and then got the position at the New School. We'd been married for a while by that point, and quite enjoying the life of two childless adults in a city so full of things to see and do. Operas and lectures and very smart films–" He pauses and makes a face, then says, "Come to think of it, we were a bit pretentious."

Regina can't help the way her lips curve into a smirk, nor can she fight the little flutter of satisfaction when Robin's do the same.

"But it was an enjoyable sort of pretension, I suppose, and we were quite happy. With each other, at least. But Marian wasn't sure New York was where she wanted to put down roots, and so she'd been inquiring about positions in other places. Nothing was panning out for her, though, and I thought it was something that would pass. A bit of wanderlust she needed to get out of her system. I suppose she would say I wasn't truly listening to what she had to say." There's a bitterness to his words – not a choking kind, just a tense undercurrent, and Regina imagines he's argued over that same point before. "Regardless, two weeks after I accepted my post at the New School, she was offered a position at Stanford."

Impressive, she notes, but Marian must not have taken it, and Regina says as much.

Robin shakes his head. "She wanted to, but I didn't want to quit a job I'd only just started, and have to search for another position on the other side of the country - especially considering her own job search hadn't gone swimmingly. She felt I was being selfish; I felt she was asking too much of me, particularly since she was still teaching at Wellesley at the time. It made no sense to me to uproot so unnecessarily. But she found out that same week that she was pregnant with Roland, and it… became a non-issue," he tells her. "It made even less sense to uproot with a child on the way, particularly if it meant I'd be out of a job for a while. So we stayed here."

"Sounds to me like you got lucky," Regina reasons, spearing a forkful of salad. "You got to stay where you wanted, didn't have to be the bad guy, and you got a beautiful son out of the deal."

He smiles a little at her, then, and nods. "In a way, yes, I got lucky. Or at least, I got my way, I suppose, but it wasn't as if I convinced her I was right. We never worked out the conflict, it was worked out for us."

Regina's brow furrows slightly. "Do you think she still resents you? For wanting to stay?"

His sigh fills the space between them – too much space, Regina thinks, and she shifts on her cushion until her knee presses against him. "I don't know. Perhaps, for a time she did, but I think she's past it now." He takes a swallow of wine, and then continues with his story. "She didn't want to raise a child in Manhattan, so we moved to Hoboken." He says the name with just a hint of disdain, and Regina can't help but smile. She's heard good things about the other side of the river, about value for your dollar, and space, and amenities, but she cannot imagine living anywhere but Manhattan. Can't imagine stepping out of the fast pace, the thrum of people, the energy of this place she calls home. She can't imagine Robin doing it either, living in the 'burbs, playing house with a wife and a baby.

But he had, for a time, and he tells her about how they settled into routine, and how their lives became so much about Roland (and of course they had, because having a child is all-consuming, and they'd known that, and yet...) and so little about each other. They'd lost track of their marriage, had stopped going on dates, had stopped talking about the things they used to - books, and films, and the goings-on of the world around them, and started to talk about naps, and diapers, and whether to start him on prunes this week or next.

"After a time, we were unrecognizable to each other. We argued, often, about little things, silly things. Neither of us were particularly happy." He looks pained to admit it, and she can imagine why. Regina knows that Robin loves Roland more than anything in this world, and he's just told her in not so many words that the boy had taken a terrible toll on his marriage. "We forgot to care for our relationship, and by the time we realized it…" Robin sighs, takes another bite of chicken. He's barely made it through half his plate, while Regina has nearly finished hers. But then, he's been doing the lion's share of the talking. "We tried to work harder, for a while, tried to double-down and focus on us, but we weren't very good at it. In the end, she decided that time apart would be better. How could we focus on our marriage, she'd said, if we'd both lost sight of ourselves?"

"And you agreed?" Regina asks, reaching for her wine.

When he answers, "Not in the slightest," she takes an extra long sip. "I wanted to stay. I didn't see any point in separating, didn't see what good it could do – breaking up our marriage to try to keep it together. And I didn't want to lose seeing Roland every day."

Well, then. That was unexpected.

She cannot say why (maybe it's because she cannot imagine a reason for a woman to walk away from those eyes, and those dimples, and, well, his other attributes - not to mention his kind heart, and his affection), but she'd always assumed Robin had left Marian. The suggestion that he hadn't – that their split had come from her, and he'd been the one who tried to refuse – makes her already jumpy nerves even jumpier.

"Of course not," she murmurs, pleased that she at least doesn't sound as uneasy as she feels.

"But she was adamant; it was what she wanted. Six months, she said. At the very least." Robin shifts on his cushion, then reaches for the Cabernet and refills his now-empty glass. "And so I moved back into Manhattan – rented this place, and saw Roland as often as I could, which was quite often back then. Several times a week. It was still less than I liked – they grow so fast at that age. Every time I saw him he was like a different boy. It always seemed like I'd missed something new."

Regina thinks of Henry as a toddler, and can't help but agree. Every day, something changed, something grew.

"And when the six months were up?" Regina asks, glutton for punishment.

Robin looks down into his wine glass for a moment, purses his lips, then looks back at her. "I told her that she'd been right. That the time apart had been good after all, and that I felt more myself than I had those last few months we'd been married." He tells her this next part slowly, his voice colored faintly with guilt: "And I told her that I didn't want to reconcile. That I wanted things to stay as they were. I wanted a divorce."

Oh.

He'd been the one to leave, after all. Regina is not proud of the slow unspooling of tension in her gut, but she feels it nonetheless.

"I can't imagine she took that well," she comments, and Robin shakes his head.

"Not particularly, no," he agrees, taking another swallow of wine. "And I felt incredibly selfish, and like a horrible parent. Being away from Roland was awful, but I found I hadn't missed Marian the way I'd thought I ought to. At first, of course, but eventually… I still loved her – I suppose a part of me will always love a part of her – but it wasn't enough. The idea of returning to that place, and that marriage, felt… unbearably stifling, and I didn't want Roland to grow up with parents in a constant state of dissatisfaction and quarrel. My parents were like that, and it was awful. So I did what I thought was best. For me."

"For him," she tells him softly, because she can see now that the guilt is not so much about Marian, but about choosing not to return to Roland. But he's just explained it to her, and she knows what it's like to grow up around a marriage that doesn't fit – hell, she's grown and her parents are still _in_ that marriage, and it _still_ makes for uncomfortable visits home, and hurt feelings, and bad blood. "Sometimes you have to do what's best for you to do what's best for your child. And he doesn't seem any worse off because of it – Roland's a wonderful little boy, and he adores you. It's obvious – it was obvious to me from the first moment I saw you with him." She reaches for his hand and gives it a little squeeze, and he turns his fingers over in hers, until they're linked together, his thumb coasting back and forth along her own. "You're thick as thieves."

He smiles at that, and nods. "That we are. I'll never regret that we had him, even as unexpected as he was, and as much as he changed things for us. That child is the best thing that has ever happened to me."

Regina knows the feeling. She gives his fingers one last squeeze and then lets go, turning her attention back to the last remnants of her dinner, and points out, "She hasn't always made it this hard for you to see him." The question there unspoken: What's changed?

"No, she used to be quite reasonable," Robin tells her, cutting a particularly big chunk of chicken for himself. She should try to shoulder more of the conversation, she thinks. Give him a chance to get more bites in between words. "But it seems in the last few months she's found all sorts of reasons to keep him from me. Brazil, I understood. But since she's been back, there hasn't been a visit she hasn't either postponed or cut short, and now she's saying that she wants him to spend Thanksgiving dinner with her family up near Boston. Her great aunt is visiting, and she's elderly, so it may be the last time she ever sees him and blah, blah…"

He looks annoyed again, and rightfully so. He was supposed to have Roland from Wednesday to Sunday, nearly five whole days, and Regina burns with ill will toward Marian again at the idea that she would cut into all that time. Even if she has a somewhat legitimate reason (although wasn't he just with her family for nearly a whole month?).

Now that she knows the story of how their marriage ended, though, Regina wonders if maybe the issue isn't something else. If Marian had truly wanted to mend their marriage, had wanted him to come back to her and be a family, raise their child, maybe all her excuses these last few weeks are just that – excuses. A way to keep Roland away from Robin, or more importantly... from her?

Regina frowns, and says softly, "Do you think–" She stops, chooses her phrasing. "Is it because you're seeing someone? Is she uncomfortable with me?"

Robin clears his throat slightly, discomfort flickering across his face again before he looks down at his place and spears a cube of roasted potato. Before he brings it to his mouth, he tells her, "Marian, uh - She doesn't know about you, actually."

Regina's brows lift slightly, and she feels her skin flush, chest to hairline, a light heat for reasons she can't explain. She reaches for her wine again.

"I see…"

Robin clearly knows he's misstepped, because he reaches for her free hand and squeezes, brings her fingers up to his lips as he says, "I'm not trying to keep you a secret - nothing like that." He lays a kiss on her knuckles, then looks her in the eye. "I'm just of the opinion that who I share my time and my bed with is none of Marian's business."

He may have a point there, but there's more at stake here than her and Robin, and she tells him so.

"Robin, her son has stayed the night in my home. Trust me, it's her business." The mother in her is incredibly uncomfortable with this new revelation. If it was Henry spending overnights with strangers without a word to her, she'd be furious. So she tells him, "You need to be honest with her," just as it occurs to her that his secret-keeping may be at the very root of this problem.

"I'm not entirely sure that will help my case at this point," Robin mutters, forking up his last bite of chicken. And no, she figures, it probably wouldn't do his arguments any good to throw a new girlfriend in the mix, but she thinks of Roland, and his unending chatter, and she knows without a doubt – she is certain – that Robin may not have told Marian about her, but that does not mean Marian is not unaware.

"Do you honestly think she doesn't know yet?" Regina asks him, before stating what should have been painfully obvious: "Roland is four years old. His last two visits with you, he's made new friends and built forts, and played games. He went to the zoo, and won at Mario Kart. That's a lot of excitement for a little boy. He knows we're together, do you honestly think he hasn't gone home to his mother and told her all about spending time with Daddy's girlfriend?"

Robin is an intelligent man - it's one of the things she finds so attractive about him – so it genuinely surprises her to see the honest look of dawning comprehension and dread on his face. He really hadn't thought of that. "Shit," he mutters ripely, his head shaking back and forth slowly.

"Seriously, Robin?"

"I didn't think," he excuses, and Regina scoffs _Yeah_ before she can stop herself. He frowns at that, not quite a glare, but close, and then reaches for his phone, shooting off a text.

Regina lets one brow lift slowly. "You're texting her?" She thinks to add _Now?_ to the end of that, because they are technically on a date here, but her mind is racing, barreling quickly toward unbridled irritation, and she just can't be bothered.

His scowl draws deeper, and she wonders if some of his irritation is with her when he says almost tersely, "Roland's still up. This isn't a conversation that needs to be had in front of him." He sets the phone down again and scrubs his hands over his face. They muffle his voice when he says, "I told her we need to talk and to call when he's asleep." Then, he looks at her, and says, "Or should I tell her tomorrow? I'd hate to spoil our evening."

Regina snorts in disbelief, because somehow they've both managed to do exactly that. She cannot believe him, cannot _believe_ him, cannot believe he thought he could get away with it. "It's fine," she tells him, none too kindly, and he narrows his eyes at her, watches her, but says nothing.

Tense silence stretches between them. Irritation is slithering under her skin like a snake, nipping at her, poisoning this otherwise pleasant evening with thoughts of _You incredible idiot_ and _As if meeting her someday didn't have the potential to be awkward already_ and _My God, Robin, he's __**four**__, how did you not see this coming?_ and _She has a right to know where her child is spending his nights_. But she's not entirely sure she has the right to be quite this burned over the whole thing, and she really doesn't want to fight with him - not when she can feel her temper simmering low, ready to be stoked. So she presses her lips together and says none of the things on the tip of her tongue.

But he's good at reading her now, too good, and he asks her a moment later, "Are you angry with me?"

She can't quite decipher the emotion behind it, but she knows this is a powder keg of a conversation – he's angry with himself, with Marian, she's angry with him – and she doesn't want to light the match. So she takes deep breath, forces a smile, and tells him, "It's not really mine to be angry about. I'm fine."

He levels her with a look, says simply her name, "Regina," but his meaning is clear: Don't lie to me.

So she looks him in the eyes, meets his gaze head on and admits, "Yes. I am."

"Why?"

"_Why?_" she questions, her voice raising without meaning to, eyes widening. "Why?"

"Yes, Regina, why are _you_ angry with me over this?" His temper is flashing now, too, that halo of tension he wore earlier back and brighter than before. "I've done nothing to you."

"You've done noth–" she scoffs, shakes her head, crosses her arms tightly over her head. "Robin, you kept something from her, something that, as far as I'm aware of, you had _no_ good reason to–"

"I told you why–"

"You have a _child!_" She cannot just sit here like this, roiling with tension, so she uncrosses her arms and pushes to her feet, stalking a few paces away as she continues to rant. "How could you not know he would tell her? I mean, my God, Henry gets home from _school_ and I get fifteen minutes of all the cool things he did today, did you honestly think after a weekend with Daddy, Roland would just conveniently forget to mention me?"

Robin is on his feet now, too, and he's stepped into her path., "Yes, I get it, I was an idiot," he bites. "And that goes a long way toward explaining Marian's anger, but _please_ explain to me why this has _you_ so angry, so I can attempt to fix it somehow."

He's pissed – maybe not as pissed as she is, but this is definitely a fight, and the only thing that helps her to take a calming breath and try to rein herself in is the utter confusion at the edges of his anger.

"Because if it was Henry, I would be furious. I would be furious that he was off somewhere with strangers that nobody thinks are important enough to even warrant a mention, and you have put me in the middle of this. Whether or not you wanted her to know who you're sleeping with, for whatever reason you felt that should be kept to yourself, you have put me in the middle of something I did not ask to be in the middle of," she tells him carefully, biting off each word. "And maybe I'm wrong, but I've been under the impression that this–" she gestures between them, "–might actually be going somewhere, which means that someday I will be meeting Marian, and now, when that day comes, I will meet her as the woman who was sneaking around with her kid behind her back, and–" He tries to speak over her, something about how that's not at all what this is, that there's been no sneaking, but she keeps going. "–you've started us off in a bad place, Robin. _That's_ why I'm angry with you."

She runs out of steam, then. Steam, but not anger – she still has plenty of that left, but nothing left to say, so she threads her arms tightly over her chest and watches as he rubs his hand over his mouth, then drops it and says simply, "I'm sorry."

There's no heat to it, it's all apology. Not desperate, but a bit defeated. It's not what she was expecting from him, but she finds it's what she wanted, so she mutters, "Thank you," and takes another deep breath.

Robin takes a step closer, reaching out and cupping her elbows lightly in his palms, telling her softly, "I'll fix it," and she says _Good_. But when he rubs his palms up and down her biceps, something he surely means to be soothing, she shrugs him off, takes a step away.

"Don't," she mutters. She doesn't want to be soothed; she is angry. She is angry with _him_, and it eats at her. She doesn't want this, this anger. She doesn't want this temper that has her clamping her jaw shut to avoid saying anything else that might bruise or cut (she has a sharp tongue when she's angry, it's a fault she's well aware of). She doesn't want to feel a twinge of guilt over the way he's looking at her now, lost, struggling to find the right angle to play to bring her back down, to somehow salvage their evening. She glances back at the table, the candles still burning, thin trails of wax leaking down their sides, at the mostly-empty plates and the partially drunk wine. It had all been so promising at the start…

She curses herself for ever picking up that book, for ever asking him to divulge the private details of his marriage. They could have had such a pleasant evening, and now look at them.

Regina cannot bear to stand in the wreckage one more minute so she moves back to the sofa and bends to grab her boots, muttering, "I'm going for a walk."

"What?" he questions sharply. The lull in his temper a brief thing, confusion and ire rising as he says, "Regina–"

But she cuts him off, yanking one boot on and then the other as she mutters, "I don't want to be here right now."

"You cannot be serious–"

"Yes, I _am_ serious," she grits, her angry gaze locking with his, and she watches as something shifts there, confusion giving way to frustration, and then he mutters _Fine_ and stalks to the coffee table, bends and blows out the candles one by one.

Tells her, "Go ahead," as he grabs the plates and mutters something about how maybe they shouldn't have done this tonight anyway. Regina finds her fingers are shaking as she moves to grab her coat, yanking it on and winding her scarf haphazardly around her neck.

She hears the dishes hit the countertop with a bit more force than necessary, and she's scooping up her purse when he comes back into the room. He pauses then, and looks at her, scowls at her, and asks her, "Are you coming back?"

She wants to say no, she does. But she also wants to say yes, wants to undo all of this, wants to rewind and start the night over, and live in blissful unawareness of how much of a colossal idiot he's been these last few weeks. But she can't do that, so she just tells him softly, tensely, "I don't know."

He blows out a breath and says, "Take the keys," before moving to his desk and pulling a spare set out of the drawer. She stands there, rooted, until he brings them back to her, and then she takes them from him, grips them so tightly the jagged edges dig into her palm, and walks out.

It's a cold night, but she is warm, overly so, her breath coming out in little steamy puffs as she stalks the pavement. She crosses Bleecker and keeps walking, hands shoved tightly into her coat pockets, as her mind whirls with what has just happened. She passes Forbidden Fruit, windows long-dark, locked up tight, and then turns, taking Bedford south to Barrow, then turning again, Hudson to Morton to Greenwich. She walks the winding streets and tries to let the cool air calm her nerves, sucks it in through her nose, out through her mouth, and for a the first ten minutes she allows herself to rant at him some more. To holler at him silently, to say every unkind thing her bitter little heart can manage, to let loose her sharp tongue here, inside her head and far away from him, where it can do no damage. She spends another ten minutes imagining every awkward scenario in which she and Marian will likely meet, tries to figure out what she might say to her to smooth everything over, even though at the root of it the issues is not hers to resolve.

After that she just walks. Walks, and walks, turns left, then right, then left, choosing her directions at random until she's half-lost, and has to pull out her phone and furtively search Google maps to chart her course back.

The more she walks, the more her anger fizzles, and when she finds it has all burned off, she's left with a tiny, hard knot of _hurt_ in her chest. Her teeth dig into her lip as tears prick her eyes, and she keeps her head down except to glance at street signs. She doesn't cry, not really, but her breath comes a little heavier, and she wonders now if they've crossed some sort of line they cannot come back from. As fights go, she's heard much worse – she didn't inherit her temper from nowhere, after all – but it's their first real one, and she thinks that means the honeymoon period is officially over. Something about it squeezes around her chest, makes her ache.

It's a full hour between when she leaves his apartment and when she wearily climbs his stoop again.

When she opens the door, it's to a darkened room. He has turned out all but the desk lamp, and is sitting on the sofa nursing whiskey now instead of wine, a lowball of amber liquid in one hand. He looks up when she walks in, and she cannot read his expression. Robin is quiet as she peels out of her coat and tugs off her boots, sips his whiskey and says nothing.

But when she turns to face him again, he holds out a hand for her, beckoning her to join him, and she does.

She settles next to him on the sofa, and curls up under his arm, his chin pressing against her head before he says to her, "This _is_ going somewhere. I never meant to make you feel as if it wasn't. And I'm sorry for...all of this. I'll make it right."

Regina shifts, sits up more fully and looks him in the eye, lifts her fingers to cup his jaw, and presses their foreheads together, and then their lips. It's a soft kiss, an apology, and when it breaks she whispers into the space between them, "I know. I'm sorry, too." Robin's fingers lift to thread through her hair, tucking it back behind her ear, and Regina puts another inch or two of space between them and urges quietly, "Let's just go to bed."

She doesn't want to talk anymore, doesn't want to rehash this. She just wants to be close to him.

Robin either feels the same or doesn't see a point in arguing, because he nods and sets his glass on the coffee table. Leaves it there, and takes her to the bedroom. She borrows a t-shirt from him to wear to bed, but she needn't have bothered. They're not under the covers for more than five minutes before hands are wandering, seeking, mouths finding each other in the dark. They're quiet, almost silent, the only noises their soft gasps and moans, mouths coming together and apart, the muffled damp sound of flesh against flesh after he slips inside of her. It's a little desperate, a little out of sync, but Regina still comes with soft cry, her fingers gripping his hair, her skin slick and sweaty against his.

They fall asleep after, his bare belly against her bare back, one hand cupping her breast, his nose in her hair.

When she wakes at four to the melodic chime of her cell phone alarm, they haven't moved an inch.

**.::.**

At 8:10 on Friday morning, Robin pushes open the kitchen door, empty-handed, and hovers there looking unsure.

"Are we alright?" he asks her earnestly, and Regina abandons the batch of croissants she'd been working on, leans against the prep table and gives him a smile that is only slightly strained.

"We're alright," she assures. Robin takes that as permission to venture nearer, closing the distance between them and tipping her chin up with his fingers, holding her jaw as he places the most apologetic of soft kisses on her mouth.

"Good," he tells her softly, fingers stroking back and forth along her jaw in a way that makes her want to purr. She feels goosebumps spread down her neck and leans into him, her eyes dropping closed.

He gives her another kiss, then speaks quietly, "I don't like you hurt, even less so when I'm the cause of it."

Regina nods, tells him that she knows, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't still feel the slightest edge of tension and ill will toward him. A lingering aftertaste of the previous night's high emotions, as yet unresolved, unless… "Did Marian ever call you last night?"

She hadn't asked after she'd returned, hadn't wanted to go there.

Robin shakes his head and sighs, tells her, "No," and then, "I haven't heard from her yet."

Regina takes a step back, turns to her croissants, and nods because she doesn't know what else to say to him. She wants this whole thing dealt with, sooner rather than later, so she can know just how bad of a mess it all is and how she can go about helping to smooth it over. The last thing she wants is to have custody issues and secrets hanging over their heads. She wants to get back to the way things were - happy domesticity, and flirting, and incredible sex.

When his hand settles gently between her shoulder blades, she tenses infinitesimally, but he notices, and lets out a quiet sigh. "We're alright, but not great?" he ventures, and Regina gives him another tension-laced smile.

"We're alright," she assures, telling the truth for the most part. "I'll just feel better once everything is out in the open."

He tells her that he will, too, and then kisses her goodbye, and heads back to the front of the bakery to order his breakfast.

**.::.**

Friday afternoon finds Robin taking up residence at one of the tables in the front of the bakery, with a stack of papers to be graded, a bottomless mug of coffee, and a slice of pumpkin-chocolate chip-cream cheese bread. He keeps mostly to himself – genuinely busy or giving her space, she's not sure. Regina steals glances at him via the pass-through every now and then – she likes watching him work, likes the way he taps his pen lightly against his bottom lip while he reads, the way his brow furrows and his mouth draws into a scowl, likes the way he scribbles notes in red ink every now and again. She doesn't feel bad eyeing him without him knowing - considering all the weeks he did the same to her before finally working up the courage to ask her out, she figures she's owed the occasional peek of her own. And besides, there's something about the sight of him, at ease, that helps to smother the last few embers of her ire from last night.

But when he ducks into her kitchen as she's measuring flour and sugar and butter for a batch of cookies, cell phone to his ear, and "Marian, I'm sorry," on his lips, she feels the irritation tick up again. Feels it creep up her spine, bleed into her movements as she dumps ingredients into the bowl of her mixer.

She glances at him, and he covers the phone with his hand, his voice barely even a whisper when he mouths, "I didn't want to do this out there," his head tilting toward the front of the bakery.

She's not sure having this conversation in the kitchen is all that much better, but at least there's a chance the little gaggle of preschoolers and their moms that are currently ordering a half dozen of various flavors of cookies won't hear every detail of his custody woes, so she doesn't protest. She goes about her business, although she can't exactly start creaming the butter and sugar, not unless she wants his phone call to have the not-so-subtle noise of a professional-grade mixer in the background (she can't imagine that would go over well with Marian). She grabs a few more small bowls and preps the rest of the ingredients, cracking eggs and measuring spices. If she was a better person, she would try not to listen, but it's awfully hard when she's so invested in the conversation he's about to have. And when he's having it three feet from her.

He is defending himself, telling his ex-wife that he slept on the sofa, and Regina thinks _great, this is just great._ What must Marian think they've been up to with Roland there if Robin is having to defend their sleeping arrangements? A minute later he's got his dander up, and she hears the phrase _since you seem to be under the impression that I'm neglecting our son_ and _When Roland is here, I am never not with him_, her jaw tightening.

His side of the conversation paints a pretty clear picture – one of a mother who thinks her child isn't being made a priority, and Regina tries to put herself in Marian's shoes, to see things from the other side. She was right in what she'd said last night: she would be furious.

"Regina has a boy, too," Robin says, and Regina hopes that it's enough to mollify his ex just a little bit. That, or she's going to think Regina is a fellow mother without the respect and decency to make sure that Marian, as Roland's mother, is aware and comfortable with the arrangements for her child. "And, yes, the last two times he's been here the four of us have spent time together, but it was more playdate than date, I assure you." A pause, and then she hears Robin more irritated than she thinks she's ever witnessed, even more than last night, demanding, "Has the boy never had an overnight with a friend, Marian?"

He's telling her that they play games, and watch movies, and that he is "in no way trailing him along behind me while I romance the woman I'm seeing," and Regina cracks an egg so hard against the edge of a bowl that the shell breaks and oozes, her fingers and the countertop slippery and messy. A quiet growl grinds its way out of her throat as she reaches for a towel to clean up the mess, and Robin is telling Marian that when they've spent their weekends together it's about the children, not the two of them. At least he's making that much clear, she thinks, but it does little to ease the anxious tension in her belly.

The tension does not get any better when she hears him ask, "Is that what's really bothering you? Is it truly Roland, or–" He gets cut off, and Regina shakes her head, wondering if her perfect, lovely relationship has gone from sugar sweet flirtation to the bitter aftertaste of jealous exes and relentless arguments over a child. She hopes to God that Marian says it's about Roland, and the wrong impression she's gotten of their time with him, and nothing more.

Robin mutters, "She works a block from my apartment, you can meet her any damned time you please," with a healthy dose of grumbling attitude, and then a moment later he is half-shouting, "Well, what _is_ the point, Marian?" and Regina decides that's it. She's done listening to this, and she can't have him doing this in her kitchen if he cannot be quiet.

She'd heard the pause, the momentary freeze in the voices of the mothers out front, and she _will not_ have him shouting where her patrons can be disturbed by it. She's at his side in three quick strides, grabbing his sleeve in her fist to get his attention while he bitches about his mistake not warranting Marian cutting into his time with his son.

Their gazes lock when he looks to her, and he makes this face as he continues talking, this annoyed face, like maybe he is annoyed with _her_, and she cannot _believe_ him. She stabs a finger in the direction of the office, and hisses, "I have work to do, and if you're going to yell at her in my bakery, you're damned well going to do it behind a closed door. So unless you can keep your voice down, and don't mind that mixer going on in about thirty seconds..."

She leaves that one hanging, her point clear: if you don't want her to know you're having this fight in front of an audience, get the hell away from the audience. Thankfully, he nods, and heads for the office. Regina is turning back to her prep table when the office door shuts with a bang – not a particularly loud one, but a definite slam, and she is suddenly livid.

How dare he, how _dare_ he come into her kitchen, invade her space to have _that_ argument, and then slam her doors on top of it.

Regina wrenches the mixer on with fingers that are shaking with anger, her heart pounding, and for a few minutes, she just stares. Watches the paddle spin and spin, focuses on the steady whir of the mixer, tries very hard not to think of anything, not to think of Robin, because Henry will be here before too long, and Belle with him (it's her day off, Ashley is working six to six, but Emma can't pick him up today, and Belle and Henry get along well so she'd been more than willing to meet him from school and bring him here), and she doesn't want to be a raging bitch when they arrive.

The muffled voice from the other side of the office door dies away shortly, and how ironic that he's managing to speak quietly enough now that he's somewhere it would actually be appropriate - or at least acceptable - to raise his volume. But she's trying to be calm, trying to yank down her temper, so she tries to convince herself that it's a good thing. That maybe they've gone from arguing to talking, and maybe he will be able to fix this after all, just as he promised her he would. He hadn't exactly been doing a bang-up job before.

Her cookie dough mixes up quickly, and by the time she's portioning it out onto a silicone-lined baking sheet, she's at least managed to bring herself down from pulsing anger to simmering irritation. It's a level she can live with, and it gets even better once she's deposited said cookie sheet into the oven and is wiping her prep area clean.

The rest of Robin and Marian's conversation doesn't last too terribly long – her cookies aren't even done yet when he emerges from the office, looking haggard and tense. He gives her a look, like he's resigned to more arguing, and then asks her, "Are you angry with me again?"

His voice sounds as weary as he looks, so she tells him with a slight shake of her head, "We're fine. I mean, yes, I am, but…" He sighs heavily, rakes a hand through his hair, and she doesn't regret telling him again, "We're fine. What happened?"

"No, by all means, let me have it, Regina. Now, before–"

Regina is the one to close the distance between them, stepping closer, reaching out, cutting off his words with her own.

"Just tell me what happened, Robin," she insists, squeezing his hand. "We don't need to talk about it. I'll get over it, just don't ever come into my kitchen to air your dirty laundry again, and certainly not when we have customers out front."

It's as much of an argument as she wants to have right now, considering the location, and the time, and the way he's looking at her.

Nodding, he takes a deep breath and says, "I won't. I'm sorry." He makes sure to tell her, "She doesn't blame you." Leads with it, even, and adds, "I made sure of that. We talked things out as best we could, and she wants to meet you next time she brings Roland down."

"I'd like that." The relief she feels at knowing that he'd managed to at least get things to that point is like a weight lifted, some of her anger floating away with it. "She's willing to give me a chance?"

"Yeah," he tells her softly. "She is."

"And Thanksgiving?" Regina asks, hopeful even through her ever-present irritation.

Robin shakes his head. "I get him overnight on Wednesday, but I have to bring him up to Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. And then come back without him, from the sound of things. But I'll have him for Christmas Eve, which I don't usually get. So I guess that's something."

The oven timer goes off, interrupting them, and Regina doesn't hesitate to move away from him, to open the door and heft the tray. She's still a long way from placid, and the distraction is a welcome one. She moves the cookies from pan to cooling rack, and Robin approaches, leans against the table nearby, but doesn't disturb her. Doesn't say a word until she has removed the very last cookie. Then, he asks her, "Are you sure you don't want to talk about anything? There's nothing I can do to soothe your anger? Because I can't stomach the thought of having angered you twice in as many days."

"I'll be fine," she assures him, the smile she offers up not entirely forced. "I just need some time to simmer down."

"Would you like me to go?" he asks, his voice soft and penitent – so much so that she is tempted to insist he stay, but Henry will be here soon, and she doesn't want to have to explain any lingering tension to him.

So she finds herself telling him, "That would probably be best. Just for the night. Maybe we'll do something tomorrow afternoon? You, me, and Henry?"

It's a peace offering, a way to make sure he knows that this is just a hiccup, just a bad day. Tomorrow will be another day, one they can hopefully salvage without tension or anger.

Robin agrees with a near-whispered, "Okay," but he doesn't look thrilled about it. He takes a step forward, as if to kiss her goodbye and then seems to think better of it. His step backward lances a pang through her heart – however off-kilter she still feels, she won't have him leave without a proper goodbye – and her hand shoots out and grips at his coat before he can take another step.

"Wait." There are words on the tip of her tongue, one in particular, four letters that carry too much weight, that she's not sure she's ready to say and thinks this is certainly not the right time. So she doesn't say them, but she feels like she needs to say _something_. She swallows and steps in close, wraps her arms around his neck and settles on, "This – what we have – it's important to me."

"It's important to me too," he assures, hands finding her and gripping lightly. "Incredibly so. I never meant for things to get so colossally mishandled."

"I know you didn't," Regina sighs, giving him a little squeeze and a soft peck of a kiss. She doesn't intend to linger there, but before she can pull away, Robin is leaning into her, winding his arms around her and dropping his nose to the top of her head. A breath shudders out of him, and she can't find it in herself to deny him, not when he looks so miserable.

So she tightens her grip and lets him hold her for a moment. Robin breathes steadily, in, out, in, out, and finally mutters into her hair, "I get him for _one_ night next week. I was supposed to have _four_."

The heartbreak in his voice makes her own chest tighten in sympathy as she soothes, "I know."

"I had plans for him," he says, and she tells him again that she knows, and that she's sorry, her fingers scratching soothingly behind his shoulders. When those shoulders sag, and his own fingers press against her skin, and he whispers to her, "Regina, I miss my son," she caves.

Her palms slide to his neck, thumbs catching underneath his jaw and tipping his head up so she can meet his pained gaze.

"Why don't you stay?" she offers, because she can't bear the thought of his suffering any more than he can tolerate hers, and sending him off alone now seems a bit like kicking a man when he's down.

A frown tugs at his mouth as he asks, "I thought you needed space?"

It's easier than she expects it to be for Regina to shrug and tell him, "I think you need me more."

He stays another five minutes, but only five, before he tells her that she's right, Henry doesn't need to bear witness to his troubles, and he has all those papers to grade. Regina has a feeling that he will not touch the grading pile tonight, suspects he simply wants some time to himself.

She lets him go gracefully, but she can't help but wonder at how a week that started out so well could end on such a low note.

She doesn't get a chance to dwell on the thought, though, because mere minutes after Robin leaves, Henry and Belle arrive. She takes a break, sits with them and eats warm cookies and cold milk, and lets the familiarity of a Friday afternoon act as a balm to her bruised heart.


	8. Week Seven: Addendum

_**Author's Note:** Have you read Week Seven yet? (posted 9/24/14) If not, please click back and read that first or this won't make a lick of sense to ya. But I figured I'd post it here as well as tumblr (where you can find me as someonethatiamnot - along with the occasional short ficlet from the BD-verse), so folks who want to know to hear the entirety of Friday's phone call and not just the parts Regina overhears can do just that. _

* * *

.

.

.

His phone rings while he's sitting at Forbidden Fruit grading a pile of papers, and he knows even before he reaches for it that will be her. Marian. His stomach twists with nerves, and there is her name on the screen. Robin thinks _Might as well get this over with_, and answers.

"Hello, Marian."

"You wanted to talk."

Straight to the point then, he thinks with a sigh. This should be pleasant.

"I'm seeing someone," he tells her, because why mince words when she is clearly not going to. He tells himself to keep his temper in check, no matter what she says. That nobody will be helped by an argument. "I have been for the past little while, and I have a feeling this is not news to you."

"It's not," Marian tells him tersely, adding, "So nice of you to finally decide it was worth mentioning. Or was having our four year old son break the news to me your plan all along?" Robin opens his mouth to apologize, but Marian keeps talking. "And just so we're on the same page: Tell me, do you plan on bringing Roland with on _all_ your dates or just the sleepovers?"

Robin lets out a heavy breath, and amends his earlier thought to a straightforward: This is going to be bad.

"I haven't brought him on any dates, Marian," he tells her calmly, and it's true. All the time he's spent with Regina has been more playdate than date, and never has he been with the two of them alone.

"So he hasn't been sleeping at her place?"

"Yes, but–"

"No, no buts, Robin. It's inappropriate, it sets a horrible example for Roland, and–"

"Will you let me finish before you interrupt?" he asks her testily, then adds a much calmer, "Please," for good measure.

"Why should I do that? To be considerate of your feelings? Because you certainly haven't been very considerate of mine."

The door opens and a couple of young mothers usher in a gaggle of small children, five between them, all preschool or smaller. Robin doesn't want to talk about this in front of them, should probably go home, to be honest, but he doesn't. Instead he scoops up his papers, crossing the small pile of graded works over the more considerable pile left unmarked and grabs his bag. He carries everything toward the kitchen door, telling Marian, "That was never my intention, and I suppose I should have told you from the beginning–"

"Yes, you should have."

"But I –" He's carrying papers in one hand, bag in the other, his phone pressed to his ear by his shoulder, and just as he's passing the bakery case it slips, and he clambers to grab it with the hand holding the bag. Just barely manages to catch the phone before it clatters to the ground, somehow miraculously keeps his hold on the bag and the papers.

The movement catches Ashley's attention, though, and she looks over, and points at the back counter, tells him. "Leave it all there; I'll bus your things after I ring them up," and Robin gives her a look of gratitude and does just that.

"I should have told you," he repeats, the phone back at his ear, "but I didn't, and–" Robin pushes open the kitchen door, and ducks behind it as he finishes, "–Marian, I'm sorry."

Regina is in the middle of measuring out ingredients for something, and she looks up when he enters. Her brows lift slightly, her gaze flicking to his phone, and he brings his hand up to cover it and mouths, "I didn't want to do this out there," canting his head toward the mothers and children. Regina blinks once, an expression shimmering across her features that he doesn't recognize, and then she turns back to her work without a word.

Marian is in his ear, telling him, "You ought to be," and "I don't understand you, Robin. Ever since we got back from Brazil, you have been insistent about wanting more time with Roland, but when you have him, you spend all your time with this _Regina_." She says her name with such derision, and Robin can see Regina's face last night, the fury and the hurt, and the echo of her _You've started us off in a bad place._ Guilt lances through him. She was right about all of it. "Spend the _night_ with her, with our_son_ there–"

"I slept on the sofa," he interrupts, because she's making it sound like he and Regina were swinging starkers from the chandeliers while Roland looked on.

"And thank God for that, or you'd have heard from me a lot sooner."

That gets him right in the temper, has him clenching his jaw, and telling her, "I'm not entirely sure why I didn't, to be honest, but we can come back to that. I just want to make one thing clear, since you seem to be under the impression that I'm neglecting our son. When Roland is here, I am never not with him. Regina has a boy, too, and, yes, the last two times he's been here the four of us have spent time together, but it was more playdate than date, I assure you."

"Aside from the sleepovers?" she questions, and Robin huffs and begins to pace.

"Has the boy never had an overnight with a friend, Marian?" he demands in counterpoint, and on the off-chance that he hasn't, Robin doesn't give her the chance to answer. "We play Go Fish and video games, and watch Disney films, and I am in no way trailing him along behind me while I romance the woman I'm seeing. When we are together on the weekends, it's about the children, not us."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Of course, that's something I might have known if you had ever _bothered to tell me you were seeing someone in the first place_."

"Is that what's really bothering you? Is it truly Roland, or–"

"Don't you dare," she hisses. "Don't. Don't flatter yourself, Robin, I have no problem with you moving on. What I have a problem with is finding out about it from our _son_, while he goes on and on about the wonderful sleepover he had with Daddy and his girlfriend and his new friend Henry. What I have a_problem_ with is that you have been with this woman for, God, a month at least, and that's only if Roland met her the week you started dating, and I know next to nothing about her. I haven't had the chance to meet her, I–"

"She works a block from my apartment, you can meet her any damned time you please."

"That's not the point!"

"Well, what _is_ the point, Marian?" he asks with his voice raised, and he only vaguely hears the clang of something against the metal bowl of the mixer across the room. "Because I get that I made a mistake, but I don't think it's one that warrants–" Regina grabs him by the sleeve then, hard, and he stutters through his next word as he turns to look at her "–cut-cutting into my time with Roland."

Regina's dark eyes are sharp and irritated, her nostrils flaring with anger, and that's just great. Now he has two angry women to deal with. She points a finger sharply toward the door to her back office, her face scrunching into an angry scowl as she does, nose wrinkling in a way he will find quite attractive later, when he looks back on the whole thing in hindsight, but right now he's too focused on continuing his thought with, "The schedule you _agreed to_."

Regina whispers harshly, "I have work to do, and if you're going to yell at her in my bakery, you're damned well going to do it behind a closed door. So unless you want to keep your voice down, and don't mind that mixer going on in about thirty seconds…"

He nods, and stalks his way to the office, shutting the door behind him with a bit more force than he means to. Marian has been saying something about the point being that he ought to be making Roland a priority during their time together, and she'd hoped that maybe if he only had him for the one night he could find it in his heart to _not_ shack up with his girlfriend for a weekend, but she pauses when she hears the thunk of the door.

"Where are you?" she asks curiously, suspiciously, and Robin hears the steady whir of the mixer kick on, but he knows it's too dull for Marian to hear it.

"Home," he lies, because it's none of her damned business where he is, and it would just start another argument. "And why is it that I am the one being scolded here, when you are the one playing games with me – with Roland paying the consequence. Do you have any idea how childish that is – cutting into our time–"

"Oh, so I'm childish now?" she scoffs.

"Petty, then," he amends. "It is awfully petty of you to cut short my time with our son to test my behavior instead of simply telling me you know I'm seeing someone, and, I don't know, asking that he not spend time with her until you've met her or whatever it is you'd prefer."

"Would you have agreed?" she asks, her tone making it clear she thinks his answer will be no.

But really, truly, his answer is, "If you'd been honest with me, yes."

"You weren't honest with _me_, Robin," she tells him, and it's the lack of heat in her voice that cuts at him. She's calmed, suddenly, stated herself plainly, and Robin exhales heavily and slumps down into Regina's chair, stares at the photo there of her and a much younger Henry, both of them smiling and dusted with flour. It makes him miss Roland, makes him ache fiercely for his boy, and this arguing isn't accomplishing anything.

"I know," he admits, forcing his own voice to settle and calm. "And I am sorry, Marian, I truly am. I should've known he'd tell you, and even if he hadn't, I should've. You deserve to know where he spends his time, but you have to know that I would never… pass him over for a _date_. Roland means the world to me, you know that."

"Why _didn't_ you just tell me?" she asks him, both of them calm now. There's still tension, sure, plenty of it, but it's gone from raised voices to something resembling civility. "Would it have been so hard?"

"To tell my ex-wife that I'm dating someone new, and that our child will likely be spending quite a bit of time with her? It's not the easiest of conversations to have," he admits, and it's not until the words are coming out of his mouth that he realizes the truth of them. He knows he hurt her, deeply, when he chose to stay gone, just as she had wounded him by asking him to go. Telling her that there's someone in his life again… perhaps there was a part of him that had been afraid to pick at old scabs.

"I'm a big girl, Robin," Marian mutters. "It wouldn't have been as hard as you might imagine. In fact, I imagine it would have been pretty straightforward. 'Marian, I'm dating someone; Roland might be spending time with her, just thought you should know.' And I could have said, 'Great, good for you, good for both of you,'" There's a hint of sarcasm to her tone, but Robin isn't sure if it's mockery of her acceptance of him seeing someone, or simply leftover ire from this argument they're having. "'But if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to meet her before Roland starts spending weekends at her house.'"

"Alright," Robin says pointedly, because he knows now that she's right. That he cocked this whole thing up good and proper, and it is all on him. However petty and misguided her attempt to cut into his time with Roland may have been, she's made her (erroneous) assumptions quite clear, and he knows he is at fault for them. And if he is honest, he has to admit that it was only that one weekend that she had botched for bad reasons – that first one had been a bit of a fluke (a frustrating fluke, but one not a part of their current argument).

So alright, fine, he was wrong. "I was wrong," he tells her. "I should have handled things better – for everyone. Regina's none too pleased with me either about this whole thing; it's important to her that you two have a good relationship."

"When did she find out you were keeping me in the dark?"

"I wasn't–" Robin breaks off with a sigh, because it is just not worth it to go another round over that. "Last night. At which point she told me how much of an idiot I was not to have realized that you'd have known from the get-go."

"She was right about that," Marian mutters.

"Yes, she was," he agrees with her, both because it will make Marian feel better and because he knows it's the truth. "So please don't hold this against her. It was my mistake, not hers."

"I'll form my own opinions of her when I meet her," Marian tells him evenly, her tone making it clear that Regina has been forgiven for whatever unintentional hand she may have played in this whole debacle. She has a clean slate, and for that, at least, Robin is grateful.

"Thank you. Perhaps you can drive him down for the holiday," Robin suggests. "You can meet her next week." He hasn't asked Regina, but he knows she won't mind. She wants the air cleared of this whole thing as much as any of them.

"Robin, I told you." The irritation is back in Marian's voice now. "I want Roland with my family for Thanksgiving."

Robin's pulse pounds hard a few times, stays steady and strong. She what? He thought they'd worked this all out, that they were past this. That it had been just another way for her to mete out punishment for his continued silence. "Marian. It's my holiday with him."

"Tia Antonia is eighty-eight years old–"

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I'm serious. I want him to have dinner with the family."

"He just _saw_ your family."

"Well, I want him to see them again!" She's halfway to shouting now, again, and Robin's head is starting to hurt. "She's not in the best of health, she's not likely to travel again in her lifetime, and she wants her whole family together. So I want him here."

"And I want him _here_," Robin counters. "I was supposed to have him for the whole weekend, I have plans – I bought us tickets to go see _Aladdin_, months ago. I told him we we're going; he's looking forward to it."

"Take your girlfriend," Marian says coolly, and Robin burns. "Then the tickets won't go to waste."

"It's my weekend with him, and it's my holiday," Robin argues. "I want to see him, and if you're going to be so God-awful stubborn about the whole thing–"

"I am not being–"

"Then I bloody well better get Christmas," he bites, talking over her. "If you're taking my Thanksgiving, I want Christmas."

"You always have him on Christmas," Marian reminds, and Robin clenches his fist and then his jaw, releases both.

"No, not the night of the 25th," he counters. "I don't want to pick him up at six PM on Christmas Day, when the holiday is all but over. I want him Christmas Eve through Christmas morning. I want cocoa and reindeer and presents and the whole package. And I want him this Wednesday, overnight."

Marian heaves a sigh, lets out a little growl of frustration that he once found incredibly charming and now does not in the slightest. "I told you, I want him here for dinner–"

"I will have him there by dinnertime," Robin tells her, and come hell or high water, he will. If it means he spends Thanksgiving Day on the train, so be it. "But I want him Wednesday morning, and I want to watch the Macy's parade on TV on Thanksgiving Day." He leaves out the part where he will be doing so in pajamas, huddled around Regina's sofa, with a breakfast spread she's been musing over the last week, suggestion after torturous suggestion being floated by him via text. "And then I will bring him to dinner. But I still think you're being incredibly unfair about this whole thing."

Another sigh, and then Marian finally relents. "Fine. Wednesday overnight, and you can have him for Christmas Eve this year. But I want to meet her before then."

"You will," Robin assures, feeling incredibly bad-tempered and beaten-down. He's gotten himself a full Christmas with Roland, something he's yet to have since the divorce, and he can't even enjoy it, not with the heaviness he feels at the loss of five days with his boy just a week from now.

There's noise in the background of the call, and then she tells him, "I have to go. We'll work out the details for Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, and then they say their goodbyes, and Robin tosses his cell phone onto the desk with a clatter. Leaning forward slightly, he braces his head in his hands, presses the heels against his eyes until he sees spots. His head is throbbing dully, and his shoulders feel tight and achy. His jaw tense.

And he still has an angry Regina to contend with.

Robin stays where he is for a few minutes longer, and then goes to face the music.


	9. Week Eight

On the last Monday of November, the mini pie on special is pear and ricotta. She chooses it because on a Wednesday in early October, Robin had found it reason enough to finally, finally speak to her. She wonders if he thinks of her every time it pops up on the menu the way she thinks of him.

Regina has not seen Robin since Friday afternoon, and while she understands why (they had not parted ways on the best of terms, and both of them probably needed a little bit of time to think, and breathe, and lick their wounds), his absence makes her feel unsettled. It's not as though they cannot spend two whole days apart – they're not that desperate for each other – but the distance is a palpable thing that has her glancing at the clock all of Monday morning. 6:15 (_you're being ridiculous, Regina_), 6:52 (_time is not moving that quickly, Regina_), 7:02 (_you looked at the clock ten minutes ago, Regina_), 7:17 (_spend the next hour doing paperwork, Regina_), 7:41, 2, 3 (_you've spent the last three minutes staring at that picture of the two of you on your phone, Regina, snap out of it_).

Robin walks in at 7:56, bypasses Ashley entirely and steps into the kitchen. Regina is there, has just given up on paperwork and started a new batch of mini pies (the pear and ricotta always go fast, but she has one tucked away back here for him). She looks up when he walks in, and he hovers at the doorway, and smiles at her in a way that is both warm and charming, and somehow reminiscent of a guilty puppy. He has one arm behind his back.

"Good morning, lovely," he tells her, that arm coming forward to brandish a clutch of deep red roses, and Regina can't help but grin.

"Bribing me with flowers?" she asks, brows rising in question.

"It seemed the right thing to do," he says and sways forward just a little bit, as if to take a step, then settles back. He's unsure of himself, she realizes – unsure of where they stand – and she doesn't want that. "Plus, it's been some time since I brought you flowers, and if I recall, you've always found them quite charming."

Regina chuckles, and urges, "Well, don't just stand there. Bring them here." He's at her side in three quick steps, laying the flowers unceremoniously on the prep table and murmuring _I just need to…_ as his hand rises to tug at the band holding her hair back, dark tresses falling free only to be caught up in his fingers as he weaves them into her hair and bends his brow to hers. He takes a breath, one, and so does she – breathes in the smell of detergent and cologne and some woodsy soap that is uniquely Robin – and then he tips his head in closer and kisses her. It's a slow, lingering thing, a kiss meant to settle, and she feels every tense and anxious worry she's been carrying relax at the contact.

She sighs as they part, and as he says, "I missed you," Regina winds her arms around his waist and gives him a little squeeze.

"You knew where to find me," she reminds.

"I wanted to give you space," he says, and then, "And I think I needed a bit of my own, to be honest."

Regina nods, closes her eyes when he begins to scratch his nails against her scalp lightly. It raises goosebumps all down her neck, and makes her voice go a little low and velvety when she asks, "Are you feeling better?"

"That depends," he answers. "Are you still angry with me?"

Regina's dark eyes blink open, and she finds herself shaking her head and knows that it's true. "No, we're… we're good," she assures. "Thank you for the breathing room. But I missed you, too."

"Even though I was a fool?" he asks, hands skimming down her back now, finding her waist, and she immediately disentangles from him and lifts her own hands to sweep her hair back up, using the the spare band looped around her wrist, since Robin is still in possession of the first.

"Don't remind me," she mutters teasingly. "But yes, even though." Her hands settle on his biceps and linger there, but her gaze slides to the side, to the blooms on the prep table. "And how can I stay angry with a man who brings me roses?"

"Oh, I think you could manage," he teases, releasing her with a chuckle when she rolls her eyes and pushes at him. She reaches for the flowers, lifts the bouquet to her nose and inhales deeply. There's something about the smell of roses…

"Probably so," she murmurs almost absently, flicking her gaze back up to his. "But I don't want us to spend the whole week arguing over this when there's nothing more that can be done about it right now, and I know how hard it is for you to lose more time with Roland."

Robin sighs and leans against the table, nodding. "I spoke with her again yesterday, and tried to talk some sense into her, but she still won't budge on Thanksgiving. I'm trying to get her to agree to all of Christmas week in exchange. She said she'll consider it."

Regina frowns into her roses, but takes another deep whiff before she tells him, "Robin, you need to talk to her about this. Really talk to her. It isn't fair to you, or to Roland."

"I know," he murmurs, shifting, sighing again, his hands settling on the table's edge on either side of his hips. He's staring at a spot on the floor, a bit of dough that managed to fall at some point, then get stepped on and squished, ground into the flooring.

"Soon," Regina encourages gently, but not without authority.

"I know," he tells her again, a hint of annoyance in his tone and she wonders if this is a subject she should be pushing on, or if she should let him determine his own battles. But she loves him (she's come to realize that, particularly over the last few days – come to accept it, even, although she's not entirely willing to lend voice to it yet), and this is hurting him – has been hurting him – and she wants to see that pain stop. "But I think it may be a talk that we should have in person, and I can't very well spring it on her when I drop him off for Thanksgiving dinner."

He's right about that, she supposes, so she lets the subject drop and switches the topic of their conversation entirely.

"I made you pear and ricotta pie," she tells him, and it earns her a smile, wipes the troubled frown right off of his face.

"Did you now?"

"Mm," she confirms. "The daily special."

"Just for me?" he questions. Robin looks oddly touched by the gesture, and his expression has a little frisson of satisfaction stealing through her belly.

She smiles warmly at him, fingers creeping over and settling atop his. But she can't help teasing, "Well, also for my bank account; they're a hot item. But yes, for you. I know you like them."

Robin turns his hand in hers and lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of her palm. When he tells her, "I don't know how I got so lucky as to have you," she's the one looking touched. "But I am so grateful for whatever I must have done right to deserve this."

Regina feels warm and fluttery, but she tamps it down and scoffs, pulling her fingers from his, and telling him to stop flirting so hard, she's already forgiven him.

"Well, then I suppose you'll be agreeable to my request to take you to a movie tonight?" he asks with a grin, adding, "I'd intended to ask you whether you'd forgiven me or not. I had a whole reasoning prepared for why a movie was the perfect date for a couple still on the outs. You wouldn't have had to speak to me, or even look at me. I'd have even let you hoard all the popcorn."

Regina laughs a little, shaking her head. "You make it sound so romantic."

"I do try," he teases back, and she has _missed_ this, oh how she has missed this. Missed flirting with him, missed the ease of them. She'd been worried that their fight might have irrevocably altered them, might have put an ugly, tense scar across the surface of the something that had felt so fresh and clean and right. It seems her worries had been unfounded. "So, what do you say? Can I take you out tonight, Regina?"

She wants to say yes, she really does, but instead she finds herself exhaling her disappointment, and telling him, "I don't know, Robin, this week is… It's busy." 'Busy' is an understatement; it shows in the growing weariness in her voice as she explains, "I have a boatload of Thanksgiving special orders to fill, and that's on top of the regular load for the bakery. I'm going to be here until at least six tonight, and probably eight tomorrow, maybe later if I have to be. And I have to bake a batch of pumpkin bars for Henry to bring in to his class on Wednesday, which wouldn't be such a big deal if he hadn't decided that he wants to bag them individually for each classmate - with name tags and everything. And I should just say no, especially since Emma is still on that ridiculous case and will be of absolutely no help, but he was so excited about the idea. He wants to drag me to Michael's tonight to find Thanksgiving stamps to make them festive, even though you know they're just going to get thrown out as soon as the kids open them. And I still have to plan and shop for a Thanksgiving brunch _and_ dinner, and–"

He silences her rambling with a kiss – quick, and sweet, but effective – before his hands find her biceps and give them a little squeeze.

"Breathe, lovely." She does; in, then out. "How about," Robin continues, "I take Henry for the evening. I can collect him from school, see that he gets something to eat, and then _I_ can take him to get whatever he needs to make the name tags and you can meet us at home afterward, whenever you're finished."

"You want to take my son to the craft store?" she questions doubtfully.

Robin smiles and tells her, "I do."

Her brows lift in suspicion. "Because you're a little afraid you're still in the doghouse?"

"Because I want to make life easier on you whenever possible, and this is a small and painless way to help." Robin's hands slide up to the tops of her shoulders, and knead there, thumbs digging in small circles. "I can't do much for your special orders, but I _can_ do this."

"You're sure you don't mind?"

"Positive," he promises, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her brow. "I've nothing else to do with my evening. Let me take some of the pressure off you."

"If you insist," Regina acquiesces, because it really would free up her evening and take a load off her stress. Then she catches sight of the clock on the wall, and realizes if he lingers with her much longer, it will put him behind schedule.

So she retrieves his pie and bids him adieu, does not miss the way Ashley tells him to help himself to his coffee, because she has a line five people long. When she takes her next break, she calls Henry's school to let them know Robin will be picking him up, and with that off her mind, she focuses on the myriad things she has to get done before she can leave for the day.

It's after six before she heads home, a dull ache at the base of her skull, muscles tight with tension down her neck. She's kneading them with one hand as she walks into her apartment, face tipped down, so it's a moment before she actually takes in her surroundings.

When she does, her eyes widen, jaw dropping slightly before her mouth spreads into a bewildered smile. The apartment is...festive to say the least. They'd had a few Thanksgiving decorations up already (a stout pilgrim couple with overly large buckles on their boots and hats stands on one of the shelves of the entertainment center, and a squat, plush turkey that looks a bit silly on another, a paper cornucopia taped to the inside of the door), but now there are window clings on each available pane, letters spelling out HAPPY THANKSGIVING spread along one wall, and the kitchen and living room are decked out with fall leaves, more pilgrims, pumpkins, another fat turkey. There's a real cornucopia on the table, with little felt pumpkins and gourds piled inside, and what looks like a few real ones as well to round it out. A trio of fat pillar candles burns on the coffee table, deep red and filling the air with the scent of mulled cider. The table itself has a garland of fall leaves, orange and red and gold, taped around the edges.

"What's all this?" she questions, shedding her coat and shoes.

Henry looks up from his spot at the kitchen table, and announces proudly, "Operation Cornucopia!"

Robin is at the stove, tending to a pot of something and a skillet. He glances over with a smile and a shrug, telling her, "Michael's has a surprising amount of home decor."

Regina can't help but laugh, making her way to them and agreeing, "You're not wrong there. I thought you were just going for supplies for the name tags."

When she's within reach, he holds out an arm for her, draws her close and kisses her hello. Regina leans into him, ignoring the little noise of protest Henry makes from the other side of the kitchen. He's used to their displays of affection by now, and it's not as though she's climbing Robin like a stripper pole.

"We were," he says, adding, "But we happened across their seasonal section and Henry and I felt the place could use a little sprucing up."

Regina shakes her head, still baffled, but lowers her voice to ask, "How much did you spend?"

"That," he tells her, "is none of your business." It is, Regina thinks, because she should probably pay him back – he doesn't owe her home decor. But Robin changes the subject almost immediately. "Supplies have been purchased for the name tags, but we got a bit distracted with our decorating, so I have promised Henry that he and I will make them tomorrow afternoon, while you're working. He is halfway through his homework, and I–" he drops another quick kiss on her lips, "Am making you dinner."

She glances at the stove then, for the first time, finds soup in the skillet, and grilled cheese on the stove. "It's not much, I'm afraid," he tells her. "But it'll fill your belly."

"It's perfect," she tells him with a shake of her head – it's more than she'd expected to find when she came home, that's for certain.

"Now you," his arm tightens around her waist for just a moment, then releases her entirely as he orders, "Go sit. Say hello to your son, try to make some sense of that godawful Common Core. I'll have your dinner in a moment."

Her chest flushes with warmth, and a settled feeling – the feeling of being taken care of, she realizes. Something she hasn't been able to feel in so long, in ages, maybe since Daniel, and even with him there hadn't been time for much of that. She's always the caretaker, always the mother, always the one who has to get everything arranged, and prepped and sorted. The lifted weight of Robin taking charge of her home for the evening has a thick knot in her throat, something like the burn of tears pricking her eyes. She blinks and swallows, refuses to be so weak over something so mundane.

For Henry's sake, she resists the urge to kiss him _another_ time, and just presses her nose into Robin's shoulder for a moment instead.

Then she goes to Henry, and helps him tackle the rest of his homework.

**.::.**

Tuesday is a blur.

Regina has to balance the special orders with the bakery requirements, has to pair items by temperature and time, has to be mindful of pick-up times, and work around extra cooling racks and to-go boxes. Robin picks Henry up from school again and brings him to the bakery, where they sit just as promised, with a stack of little cards, their Thanksgiving stamps, a spool of twine, and the class roster Regina had received via email from Ms. Blanchard the night before.

Belle stays after closing to help Regina, and Emma shows up around seven, tired and hungry and smug after having remanded her latest bail jumper into police custody. At some point, dinner is brought in, although Regina couldn't say who is responsible for it (Robin, she thinks? Or maybe Emma? One of the two, certainly neither herself nor Belle). Regina wolfs down a carton of chicken lo mein while looking over Henry's homework (they'd done that before the name tags, she is told), then heads back to the kitchen.

At half past eight, Emma takes Henry home, carrying a box of carefully packaged pumpkin bars that will go to school with him in the morning. Regina will miss bedtime, and the guilt eats at her, but Henry doesn't seem to mind. Just kisses her goodbye (and goodnight), and leaves with a wave and a smile, and a "Don't work all night, okay, Mom?"

Robin stays behind and asks if there's anything he can do to help, but she and Belle have a rhythm now, and a system, and she doesn't want inexperienced hands in her kitchen. So he stays out front and reads, keeps them well-supplied with coffee whenever asked, and stays out of her way.

When she finally leaves at ten past nine, she has a throbbing, pounding headache, an aching back and sore feet.

"Stay the night with me," Robin urges her, and Regina makes to protest, Henry's name on her lips, but he cuts her off. "It's after nine; Henry is already tucked in. There's no use going home just to sleep and come right back. You can do that at my place, and get an extra half hour in the morning."

It's the promise of extra shut-eye that wins her over.

Regina nods, presses her fingertips against the relentless pain in her head, and breathes, "Okay."

Through his glove and her coat, she can't feel the warmth of the hand he places between her shoulders blades, but it's a comfort nonetheless, steady and guiding as he walks her to his door.

When they get to his place, Robin is ready to pour her into bed, but not before doling out Excedrin and a large glass of water. Regina winces against the bright light of the bathroom, swallows down the medicine and several more gulps of cool water, then hands it back and presses her palms to her eyes. She was right to come here; just the thought of the rumble and whine of the subway makes her nauseous.

"Come on," he urges, that hand on her back again, and now she can feel the welcome warmth of it. "Let's get you to bed, lovely."

Regina lets him lead her to the bedroom, where he gives her one of his shirts to sleep in again and urges her toward the mattress. When she buries her face into the pillow he kills the bedroom light, leaves a low light on in the living room and joins her on the bed. She expects him to crawl in with her, but he doesn't. Instead he sits beside her, brings his strong hands to the tense, knotted muscles of her neck and shoulders, and kneads firmly until she is boneless and sleepy, her headache still present, but dull. A persistent, annoying echo, no more than that.

She's hovering somewhere just above sleep when he smoothes his palms over her back, then draws the covers up to her shoulders, kisses her cheek and whispers, "Sleep, my love."

Sleep pulls her under before the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.

**.::.**

He wakes with her on Wednesday, and while he could easily sleep for a few more hours (and probably should, considering the long day ahead of him), he chooses to come with her to the bakery instead.

She's not used to company this early (with the exception of the times she's had to drag Henry with her in the pre-dawn hours, but he always immediately sacks out on the benches with a blanket and pillow, leaving her alone for all intents and purposes), but she finds she doesn't mind it. She fixes two cappuccinos instead of one, plates two day-old croissants to go along with them, and they sit in the silence of the half-darkened bakery and munch their breakfast.

Robin is quiet, and at first she thinks the lack of conversation from him is just tiredness, but after a little while it dawns on her that he's moody. He's supposed to go pick up Roland this morning, and she knows he's still upset about their time being cut short.

She reaches for his hand, weaves their fingers, asks him, "Are you alright?"

Robin sighs quietly, shifting his grip in hers so the pad of his thumb traces the length of hers, back and forth, over and over, slowly. "Yes," he says softly, "I'm just not really looking forward to seeing Marian, and I am looking forward even less to tomorrow morning, when I'm going to have to drive him all the way up to Springfield. Twenty-four hours after I bring him here."

"You're driving?" she asks. It's probably not the detail that should stick out, but it is. Usually he takes the train up and back, and last she heard he'd been talking about booking Amtrak tickets for him and Roland for the holiday.

Robin nods, tells her, "Emma offered me her car, since she won't be needing it for the day. I'm sure traffic will be _delightful_, but it's more direct, and certainly cheaper than a holiday ticket on short notice."

"I thought you'd already booked," Regina says, reaching for her coffee and taking a sip.

"I was hoping I could still change her mind. Or that I'd end up unable to book tickets, and he'd _have_ to stay," he admits with just a hint of guilty awareness that it wouldn't exactly have been the best plan.

Regina gives him a look of mild admonition, but she can certainly understand the urge. "Somehow I can't imagine that would have gone over well."

"No," he sighs heavily, "It certainly wouldn't have. But it's no issue now. We'll brave the traffic."

"You should have slept in," Regina tells him, as she takes the last bite of her croissant. "There will be traffic today, too; you'll want to be alert."

Robin simply shrugs and says, "I'll be alright." Then adds with a smile, "I'll just have to beg some lovely lady for a bit of strong coffee to go."

Regina smirks at that, reaching over to run her fingertips through the hair above his ear and assuring, "No begging required. Do you want to help me get set up?"

Knocking back the last of his coffee, Robin nods, then leans over to steal a kiss before she leads him to the kitchen. She lets him help, rattles off instructions for starting up the ovens, has him slice a roll of chocolate chip cookies she'd prepped and frozen and thrown in the fridge overnight to thaw (the dirty secret to baked fresh daily - just because she baked them this morning doesn't mean she didn't make the dough in a giant batch on Monday), while she starts on cinnamon streusel muffins.

He stays until Ruby gets in at six – by then, Regina is hard at work, ticking items off another tightly scheduled day. She sends him off with a kiss, and a large coffee, and a handful of muffins still warm from the oven.

It's the last she sees of him before Thanksgiving morning.

**.::.**

Regina wakes early on Thursday, and the first thing she feels is guilt. She was supposed to spend the night before with her son, with Robin and his, with Emma and Neal. They'd had plans to take the boys to dinner, and then up to see the Macy's parade balloons being blown up by Central Park. And they'd done that – everyone except Regina, that is. By the end of the workday, she'd been so tired, and still had so much on her to-do list that she'd begged off the evening out, and insisted that she'd see them when they got home.

But she hadn't.

She'd spent the earlier portion of her evening navigating the horror that was the grocery store on Thanksgiving Eve, gathering the bulk of holiday meal ingredients she was still missing. And then she'd come home, and unpacked, made cranberry sauce, and baked potatoes (both sweet and regular) in preparation for tomorrow's meal, and prepped an egg casserole for them to eat in the morning during the parade. By the time she'd finished, she'd been so tired that the idea of staying up even another half hour had been intolerable, and she'd crawled into bed while the apartment was still empty and quiet.

She's sure the others hadn't been out late, not with a four year old and a ten year old tagging along, but Regina hadn't heard a peep when they came in.

So now, yes, she feels guilty. Guilty for how little time she's had with Henry this week, guilty for not spending time with Roland on the one night he's here for the holiday. Guilty for once again being the party pooper of the group.

_Feeling guilty doesn't get you anywhere_, she reminds herself, pushing her covers back and slipping from the bed, feet finding her slippers on the floor and wiggling into them. She gropes for her robe and wraps it around herself, then shuffles as quietly as possible out of her bedroom. Weak morning sun works its way into the apartment from the window in the kitchen, and Regina smiles at the sight of blankets piled around a dark mop of hair on the papasan chair. Roland.

Robin is sprawled on the sofa, one arm above his head, half hanging over the sofa's edge. The other rests on his belly, fingers loosely clutching the single blanket covering him. She watches him for a moment, the rise and fall of his breath, the shadows the low light paints across his face, pressing her palm to her heart when it stutters the way it sometimes does at the sight of him. She wonders if he's cold, then thinks no, he mustn't be, he looks perfectly content.

She checks on Henry, too – avoiding that patch of floor that creaks, turning the knob on his bedroom door slowly and silently. His Hogwarts luminary is on and spinning, the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling faded away after hours without enough light to fuel them. But he's there, and sleeping soundly, and just like she had with Robin, Regina spends a few minutes simply drinking in the sight of him. Her heart clenches again, but it's different this time – more wistful. Henry's getting so _big_, and she wonders if next Thanksgiving he will still think the big Snoopy balloon is cool, if he'll still want to curl up and read with her. Wonders if she should have tried harder yesterday to get everything done before their evening plans, because who knows how much longer he'll want to go watch the balloons inflate on the night before Thanksgiving.

She shakes her head, takes a breath, reaches up to brush her fingertips across his forehead and through his hair once – but only once (she doesn't want to wake him this early). Then she winces and draws her hand back as he stirs at the contact, his eyes blinking open in the dark. He slurs something that sounds like "Mom?" and she shushes him quietly. Her hand moves toward him again, skates through his hair softly, for him this time, not herself.

"I was just checking on you," she whispers, coasting her thumb along his temple and coaxing, "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

His lashes flutter again, and Regina keeps her palm warm against his hair, rubs his temple a few more times, and then he settles, out for the count.

Resisting the fierce, tugging ache to climb up and kiss his brow (it would only start this whole thing over again, she tells herself), she leaves his room and tiptoes back to the kitchen.

There, she spends the next hour slowly and near-silently readying brunch.

She mixes a batch of blueberry muffins, puts them and the casserole into the oven to bake, slices oranges and pears, and brews a pot of coffee, all before Robin finally stirs on the sofa. He groans into the silence, his arms extending into view past the end of the couch as he stretches and sighs, relaxes again. His head appears above the back of the sofa, a sleepy scowl on his lips that makes her own curve softly. She gives him a little wave from where she's leaning against the countertop, her favorite mug in hand, and he turns, scrubs his hands over his face, and stands.

He twists his back this way and that, and she hears it pop softly from all the way in the kitchen - a testament to his back or the silence, she's not sure - before he makes his way toward her. She watches his nostrils flare slightly, his head turning toward the oven. The apartment smells amazing – the richness of coffee, the sweet warmth of muffins, the yeasty, cheesy aroma of the casserole. His hand rubs over his stomach absently as he pads over, still blinking himself fully awake as he closes the distance between them and leans down to give her a kiss.

"How long have you been up?" he whispers to her, and even that whisper is sleep-roughened. She loves him in the morning, she thinks. Like this, when he's still waking up, still smells like warm blankets and sounds like a dream.

"A while," she breathes back, letting him relieve her of her coffee mug when he reaches for it. He sips, then hands it back, their fingers bumping. "I needed to get everything ready before the parade starts."

Robin's mouth draws into a deep frown, his hands lifting to thread through her hair and settle at the base of her skull. "You're working too hard," he tells her quietly. "It's the holiday; relax."

Regina scoffs as quietly as she can manage, shaking her head slightly – his loose grip in her hair hampering the action. "I'm hosting Thanksgiving. There's no relaxing for me today." She leans up on her tiptoes to press another kiss to his lips, careful not to slosh any coffee as she does. When she settles back down, she assures, "I'll relax tomorrow night, with you."

"We're still on for _Aladdin_?" he confirms, as if she'd have suddenly changed her mind – as if she'd ditch him on a night he's already lost the date he really wants to be going with to a petty and stubborn ex-wife.

"Of course," she whispers. "I'm looking forward to having some time alone with you." She drops her voice impossibly lower, barely more than mouthing the words as she teases, "We can go to your place after, and… work off the stress."

Robin's mouth curves into a sly grin, and he crowds her space even more, ducking his head and kissing her again, but this time with more heat, more promise, a hint of tongue. "How long until we need to wake the others?" he murmurs quietly against her lips.

One of Regina's eyebrows lifts slowly, heat blooming in her belly at the suggestion she knows he's making. She tilts her head until she can see the clock, and whispers back, "Twenty minutes. The food will be done in fifteen."

His smirk widens into a grin before he nicks the mug from her hands and sets it down behind her, muttering, "I can work with that," and then, "Let's go de-stress you before breakfast, hmm?"

Regina snickers quietly and nods, and they slip away to the bedroom as silently as they can manage, locking the door behind them just in case one of the children wakes in the next quarter hour and comes looking for them. It's a quickie in every sense of the word - rushed foreplay, still half dressed, Regina pressed up against a wall she doesn't share with anybody else so that he can fuck her hard without making much noise. But it gets the job done, and done well, and when they emerge just as the oven timer starts to go off, her knees are still a little wobbly.

**.::.**

"Holy crap, this place smells amazing," Emma mutters as she trudges sleepily into the living room at five minutes after nine, Neal trailing behind her. She looks at Regina, who is striding from the kitchen to the sofa with a glass of juice in each hand, and asks, "How long have you been up?"

"Long enough," Regina answers with a shrug, handing the juice off to Henry, who puts it carefully on the coffee table in front of himself and Roland. It's a rare day where they get to eat in the living room instead of at the table, but the parade has already started, and it's a holiday. Sometimes one has to bend the rules.

Regina glances back toward Emma and Neal, asking, "Coffee?" as they approach, and waving them back when they head toward the kitchen. "No, no. Sit. Watch. Enjoy your holiday."

"Regina…" Robin begins, frowning at her from the kitchen where he is scooping out squares of egg casserole onto plates for the boys. "It's your holiday, too."

"Relax," Emma sighs, flopping down onto the sofa next to Henry, hitting the cushions so hard she bounces slightly, making Henry laugh. "'Enjoy your holiday' is code for 'please stay the hell out of my kitchen today unless specifically requested.'"

"Language," Regina warns automatically, because the last thing she needs is Roland arriving in Springfield with new words like _Crap_ and _Hell_.

"Yes, Mom," Emma mutters with a roll of her eyes. "And yes to coffee."

"Make that two," Neal agrees, reaching forward for one of the muffins already plated on the coffee table, and peeling away the paper lining.

Regina doesn't bother to ask how they take it – she's spent enough time with both of them to know. She just heads for the coffee pot, emptying it between two mugs and adding one more scoop of sugar than she thinks palatable to Neal's, a single scoop and splash of milk to Emma's (she gets whole today instead of skim, because Regina forgot to pick up more skim at the store last night).

"Can you be a dear and refill that?" she asks Robin as she passes, his hands empty now, plates in front of the boys at the table. He nods, then reaches out, catching her around the waist and leaning down to drop a quick peck on her lips. She's smiling when he lets her go again, when she's free to bring the two full mugs she's carrying to Emma and Neal.

When she approaches, Roland looks up from his spot on the floor, fork in hand and a little eggy crumb on his bottom lip. "Regina, you're missing the parade!" he says, as if such a thing was unfathomable.

"I can see it from the kitchen," she assures him. "And we wouldn't want anyone to go hungry while they watch, now would we?"

He shakes his head in agreement, then tilts his head back and calls out, "Daddy, you're missing the parade!"

Regina can't help but chuckle, shaking her head on her way back to the kitchen as Robin tells his son he can see it too, and they'll be there in just a moment.

"Okay, but you don't want to miss Snoopy!" Roland insists, his words muffled by a mouthful of food.

"Heavens, no," Robin agrees, plating larger portions of casserole now, for the adults, as the coffee pot sputters and drips. "We couldn't have that."

"Nope!"

"Roland, please chew before you talk," Regina tells him, because Robin hasn't yet, and she simply can't abide poor manners, even in other people's children. Roland's _Sorry_ a moment later is clear and food-free.

It takes a few more minutes, but soon they're all settled in - each and every one of them with a plate of food and a drink, crowded into the living room. Robin and Regina share the papasan chair – it's big enough to accommodate two comfortably, but small enough that they're pressed together, plates balanced precariously on their laps (after about 30 seconds, Robin scoops all of her food onto his plate, then drops hers carefully to the floor, and settles their now-shared dish onto the knees she has curled against his thighs). Finally, Regina is able to take a few moments to be still, to simply eat and enjoy and observe. She lifts forkful after forkful of food to her lips, suddenly starving, and listens to Roland and Henry talk excitedly about floats and balloons, to Emma teasing Neal when he doesn't know the Disney Channel star singing on one of the floats (to Neal teasing Emma about the fact that she _does_ know).

Two months ago, if you'd asked her how she planned to start Thanksgiving morning, she'd have told you pumpkin pancakes with Henry and Emma, and then prep for dinner while the two of them inevitably engaged in some sort of heated Mario Kart battle, or Epic Mickey 2 quest. She would never have imagined - could never have imagined - the holiday would find her curled up with a man, watching as their children (his and hers, not theirs, not really) laughed together, while Emma and Neal flirted and bickered. Her plans for the day had never left her feeling empty, not in the slightest, but she'd never imagined her heart would feel this full.

**.::.**

By seven o'clock, Regina is exhausted again. Happy, yes. Full to bursting with turkey and stuffing, potatoes and vegetables, pie and cider, yes. But still, exhausted, so when her phone rings and it's Robin's name on the screen, she takes the phone to her bedroom and shuts the door behind her.

"Sounds like you're having quite the party," Robin tells her, amusement in his voice, and she hums in the affirmative.

"Belle brought Pictionary," she explains. "There's quite a bit of hollering going on. I'm fairly certain Emma and Neal should not be allowed to be on the same team, ever, if they want their relationship to last this time."

"Oh, really?" Robin chuckles, as Regina stretches out on her bed with a sigh of relief. "Trouble brewing in paradise?"

"His drawing skills leave something to be desired, let's just leave it at that," Regina tells him, chuckling a little herself. "Where are you?" she asks next – he'd left a little before noon with Roland and a neatly boxed lemon meringue pie, a peace offering with _For Marian, Happy Thanksgiving! From Regina and Henry_ scrawled across the glossy white cardboard. His plan had been to drive up, drop Roland with Marian, and turn right back around, hoping to make it back into the city at something resembling a decent hour.

By this point, he should have made good headway on his return trip, but he surprises her by reluctantly telling her, "Springfield."

Regina frowns. "Still?"

"Yes, I, uh… I had dinner here, with Marian's family."

"Oh," Regina says, blinking, staring at the ceiling. "That sounds… awkward."

"It could've been worse," he admits, although from the sound of his voice, it could have been better. "They loved your pie, by the way. And I think Marian appreciated the gesture."

Regina is confused. She can't fault him for wanting a good meal, for wanting to spend Thanksgiving dinner with his son, but she also can't imagine him willingly spending it with his ex-wife and former in-laws. She knows their split was amicable, but things have been considerably less so lately, and, well, she's just… confused.

"Good," she murmurs, trying and failing to keep her voice neutral. "Why'd you stay?"

"Roland," he sighs heavily. "He got very upset that I was to be leaving without him, that our weekend was being cut short. We'd told him that he was having Thanksgiving with his mum and her family, but he apparently hadn't realized that meant he was spending the whole weekend back at home. There was a lot of tears, and Marian finally realized that she was being, well," his voice drops low, as if he's worried about being overheard, "a bit unfair, to say the least. She said I can take him back with me, but not until tomorrow, so I'll be… staying here... overnight."

He slows for those last few words, and Regina can see why he'd be cautious, but it's unnecessary. Her lips curve, and she tells him, "I'm glad she came around."

"You're not upset?" he questions, and she huffs out a soft laugh.

"That you get to spend more time with Roland?" Regina questions. "Why would I be?"

"That I'm not coming back tonight," he clarifies, "And this changes our plans for tomorrow, of course. None of that alone time you were so looking forward to."

"Well, then it's a good thing you already ravished me this morning," she teases, drawing her knees up and planting her feet on the bed, letting her eyes drop closed as they talk. It may not be the best idea, considering how tired she is, but he'll keep her awake, she's sure.

"That I did," he murmurs into the phone, his voice low and velvety, and making her wish he was coming back tonight after all. Spending the night in her bed, in _her_.

The thought makes her frown slightly - well, not _that_ thought in particular, but the one it leads to: "Where are you going to be sleeping?" she asks him, knowing Marian's cousin was slated to have a house full of guests. She hopes he's not spending the night on the floor, or in a hotel, or God forbid – the bug.

But that's not the question that Robin hears, and his answer is terse and just a little hurt, "On the sofa," he tells her, and Regina scowls.

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant where are you _staying_?" she clarifies. "At the house, or a hotel, or…?"

"Oh," he murmurs, sighing softly and answering, "We're driving back to Marian's tonight. It's only about an hour away, and Roland will be able to pack more clothes for the weekend."

"Makes sense," she murmurs, and it does, so she tries to push down that little green monster whispering that she should feel uneasy about him spending the night at his ex-wife's. Robin would never.

"You've nothing to worry about," he assures her, as if he can hear it, too, and she shakes her head even though he can't see her.

"Robin…" she begins, because she wants to make sure he doesn't think she thought anything otherwise – that her initial reaction to him spending the night in Massachusetts was to doubt him. "I trust you. I'm not worried about whose bed you're sleeping in, I just wanted to make sure you're not spending the night completely alone."

"I'm sorry," he tells her with another sigh that makes her wonder how stressed he really is about this whole situation. It hardly sounds like an ideal holiday for him, even if the end result is what he wanted. "I shouldn't have… jumped to that conclusion. But no, I won't be alone. I have a feeling I might wish I was by the end of the night, but…"

"You two should talk," Regina suggests gently, because if they're going to be spending the night together, something good should come of it. Or at least something that allows Robin to be heard.

"We will," he assures her. "I've every intention of having a very long, very _honest_ conversation with her once Roland is in bed."

She hears voices in the background for the first time then, Roland's familiar among them, and then Robin is telling her, "I'm being summoned back inside. But I'll see you sometime this weekend, alright?"

"Alright," she agrees, and then, "Drive safely."

"I will," he assures, and then they say their goodbyes.

Regina opens her eyes to end the call, and then lets the phone rest on her belly as she takes a few breaths and ponders this new development. On the one hand, she is truly, genuinely happy for Robin that something about this weekend has finally gone his way. And she's hopeful that maybe if they're stuck alone in a house together, he and Marian can work out whatever it is that's causing all this upheaval he's been so insistent is a new development in their post-divorce parenting relationship. But she'd be lying to herself if she couldn't admit that there is a tiny part of her that isn't thrilled to pieces that he's spending the night having a long, honest chat with the woman he once called his true love.

She's being ridiculous, she tells herself, blowing out a breath, and sitting up. This is nothing to fret over, and she trusts him entirely, she really, truly does, so she tries to put those nagging doubts out of her mind, and heads back to rejoin the festivities.

**.::.**

"Okay, now you can measure out the sugar," Regina coaxes Henry, pointing to the measurement in the recipe propped up on the prep table at Forbidden Fruit. "It's that amount right there, see?"

"Mom, I know how to read the recipes," Henry tells her, his tone making it clear it's silly for her to think otherwise, and she supposes it _is_ silly for her to be hovering so much, when she's guided him through this before. "We make cinnamon cookies all the time at home."

"I know we do, sweetheart, just be careful," she urges, can't help herself. He's right, of course. They _have_ made these exact same snickerdoodles at home a thousand times before. But they aren't at home now, they're at work, and this is food for the masses. "And don't dump anything into the mixer until I check it, okay?"

It's a rare day where she's allowing him into the kitchen at the bakery, letting him help with the little things she knows he's capable of. She's promised herself she'll make more time with him wherever she can find it (a promise she makes often during the holidays, when she feels the pull between work and her child, and work inevitably wins out for a few days), so he's here with her on the day after Thanksgiving. They opened late this morning, not until nine, and so dragging Henry along with her hadn't robbed him of quite so much sleep. With the promise of being able to use the big mixer in the bakery kitchen, convincing him to join her for the day had been a breeze.

"Hey, mom?" Henry asks her, as he very carefully measures out sugar just the way she's taught him. At her answering _Yes, honey?_ he asks, "Do you think we could stay at Robin's sometime?"

Regina pauses with one hand on the oven's handle, then turns to look at him. "At Robin's?"

"Yeah," he shrugs. "He always stays at our place, but I never get to stay at his. And he has all those cool books, and when I was there that night you had the headache he said someday maybe we could come over, and he'd teach me how to play _Clue_."

"Oh," she says, wondering how in the world Henry had managed not to mention that to her when he'd excitedly told her every little thing he and Robin had done that night. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind that. Next weekend, maybe? After Roland leaves? If you want to play _Clue_, that is. It's a pretty hard game for a little boy."

"We wouldn't have to play this time, if we stayed this weekend," Henry concedes. "I just think it'd be fun to stay there, and I could see the books again."

Regina considers it. She hasn't spoken to Robin at all since he told her he was spending last night at Marian's, and she still isn't entirely sure where she stands with his ex-wife. How Marian might feel about the whole thing – another overnight with her on the days she's finally ceded back to Robin.

The last thing she wants to do is make a promise to Henry she can't keep, so she goes with "I'll talk to him about it," an encouraging smile on her face as she makes her way back over to his side of the kitchen. "Now, let's see about this batter."

She strokes her hand through Henry's hair, then looks over the ingredients he's prepped for her. He's done a good job, aside from the fleck of shell in the bowl he cracked the eggs into.

He looks up at her expectantly, hopeful, until she praises, "This looks good. Now, dump the sugar and the butter into the mixer, but–"

"Carefully," he parrots, smiling at her – beaming, really, and she can't help but grin back.

"Yes, carefully," she repeats needlessly, waiting until he looks away and pours the measured sugar before she fishes that bit of shell from the eggs with her fingertip.

She calls Robin later that afternoon and passes along Henry's request, pleased to hear the answer is a resounding _Yes, absolutely, how about tomorrow night?_

They agree that she and Henry will come over Saturday afternoon and stay the night, and for the rest of Friday both Robin and Regina have very excited young boys.

**.::.**

The first thing Roland does when they get to Robin's apartment on Saturday is insist on showing them his "room." It's not really a room, just a corner, and one that Regina has seen time and again, but she can see how proud he is, and how much he wants to impress Henry, so she _ooh_s and _ahh_s over the trunk that serves as his nightstand and the chair that makes up his "bed" - it's pushed back nearly to the wall now, a pillow propped against the back, a quilt spread over the long seat. Set up for him, it looks very much like a small bed and not like the chair it actually is.

"And these are all _my_ books!" he exclaims, pointing out the rows of children's books. "I have lots of books at Daddy's, because Daddy teaches about books." His little mouth draws into a frown as he adds, "Not as many as I have at Mama's, though."

"It's still a lot," Henry tells him, and Roland practically beams, puffing up slightly like a proud little peacock. "It's almost as many as I have at home."

Henry is paying attention - she's raised him to be polite, after all, and he's not unaware of how much Roland looks up to him, but Regina can see the way his gaze keeps shifting toward the rest of the books - Robin's books. He knows that amongst these shelves are tales upon tales of adventures, and myths, and heroes, things a little more his speed than _Chicka Chicka Boom Boom_ and _Pete the Cat_. Quite a few things that are well past his speed, to be honest, but Regina takes pity on him regardless, drawing Roland's attention to her by suggesting that maybe she can read one of his many books with him.

His face lights up again, and he nods eagerly, spinning back toward the shelves and peering hard, his face pinched in concentration as he chooses just the right one.

Henry has already moved a few feet away, looking over the rest of Robin's library. He pauses at the exact same place Regina had just a week before, tilting his head curiously. When Robin walks back into the room, carefully carrying four mugs of cocoa, Henry asks, "You wrote a book?"

Regina doesn't miss the way Robin's gaze flicks to her, then away, something flitting across his face, gone almost before it arrives, and certainly before she can decipher it. She wonders if the book is still a sore spot, or if he thinks she's put Henry up to asking. But his voice is normal, jovial and kind, when he tells Henry, "I did, quite a few years ago now."

"Cool," Henry declares, pulling a copy from the shelf and looking at it. "Why is it about kissing?"

Before Robin has a chance to answer, Roland calls out, "This one, Regina!" holding up a book from his collection.

Regina recognizes the cover immediately: _The Polar Express._

Robin frowns curiously at her, brows drawing together in question as she settles on the end of Roland's bed and the boy climbs up next to her. "I told him we could read together," she explains, and he _ah_s, and nods, smiling warmly at her before noticing the book his son has chosen.

"_Polar Express_?" Robin asks with a frown, finally passing out those cocoas, setting his and Henry's on a ledge of bookshelf, setting her and Roland's on the boy's trunk. "Already?" he questions. "It's not even December yet, my boy."

"Thanksgiving's over; it's Christmas," Roland declares, handing the book to Regina, then scooting until he's pressed right up against her side.

Regina smiles and loops her arm around his shoulder, telling Robin, "He has a point."

"Yeah," Henry agrees. "If we were home, we'd be putting up our tree tonight – right, Mom?"

"It's true," she tells Robin with a sympathetic smile. He doesn't seem terribly put out by being overruled, just shakes his head and chuckles. "The Saturday after Thanksgiving, always. It's tradition."

It's part of how she unwinds from the busy holiday week – spending as much of the weekend as possible with her son and her roommate, putting up the tree, unpacking boxes, hanging tinsel and ornaments, arranging a ridiculously expanding array of snowmen and Santas and elves all around their apartment. They always play Christmas music, and drink cocoa with cinnamon or mulled cider, picking at whatever leftovers they have from Thanksgiving before Regina turns them into turkey soup on Sunday, trying to stretch them as long as possible before they go bad, or they simply get sick of turkey sandwiches and Thanksgiving Dinner v. 6.0.

"Aw, man," Roland huffs from her side. "I wanna put up the tree! Why can't we stay with Regina tonight, Daddy?"

"Because Henry wanted to stay here," Robin reminds. "He wanted to come play at your house this time, remember? You were quite excited about that this morning."

"Yeah, but his house has Christmas!" Roland reasons, and Regina's stifling a chuckle, humor dancing in her eyes as she looks at Robin.

"We could have Christmas here," Henry suggests, and Robin turns to look at him. "I mean, you have to decorate sometime, right?" he adds with a shrug. "We could do it tonight, all together."

It's not a horrible idea – in fact, Regina thinks it could be a lot of fun, but Robin is grimacing slightly, looks unsure, and Regina wonders if maybe that's something he wants to save for himself and Roland. Something for just the two of them when it gets a little closer to the holiday.

"We could," she agrees carefully, but then, "Unless you and Roland have your own holiday traditions. If you want to wait and do everything together, just the two of you, we can do something else tonight, and then Henry, we can put all our stuff up tomorrow, like we talked about."

"It's not that," Robin tells her, shaking his head. "It's just that–"

"Daddy never has any stuff," Roland pipes up from her side, interrupting, and Robin nods his head toward the boy in agreement. "Just the little tree, and my presents."

Regina's brows quirk up in interest, and Henry's jaw practically drops to the floor. "You don't have any decorations?" he asks, and Robin shakes his head with a shrug, and says, _Not much, I'm afraid_. He used to hang a wreath on the door, he tells Henry, until the year it was stolen. Henry gapes, shakes his head, baffled. "No Santas? No snowmen? No Christmas balls?"

"Henry," she warns quietly, because maybe Robin has his reasons for not being terribly festive, and she doesn't want to poke at hidden wounds.

"None of the above," Robin confirms for her son. "When I was married to Roland's mother, we had plenty of decorations, but I let her keep them, so Roland has them at home with her. Here, it's always just been me, and decorating is an awful lot of work for just yourself."

"Well, now you have us," Henry tells him with a firm nod. "Me, and my mom, and Roland, and we're gonna decorate. We _have_ to. It'll be fun!"

"Yeah!" Roland bounces excitedly against her side, book nearly forgotten until it slips down her thighs and Regina has to move quickly to catch it before it tumbles to the ground. "_Please_, Daddy!"

"We can go to the store and get stuff," Henry insists. "And they sell trees on the street really close by – over by the subway. C'mon, Robin, you've gotta have Christmas decorations, or it won't be Christmas!"

Robin looks between them all for a second, his expression unreadable. And then he smiles, a warm, glowing thing - slow to grow, but pleased. No, touched, she thinks. He looks incredibly touched. Regina looks at the boy against her side, realization dawning on her suddenly. Robin's words echo in her head: _decorating is an awful lot of work for just yourself_ and _I'll have him for Christmas Eve, which I don't usually get_. What's the point in decorating, she realizes, if it's just going to remind you of the family who's missing.

But it's not just him now, not anymore, and Roland will be here to celebrate with them this year. She can tell by the sudden shift in his demeanor that everything has changed.

"You're right," he tells Henry, nodding, and both boys erupt in cheers. "But if we're going to get everything done tonight, I think we'll have to split up. We can't possibly get the tree and all the decorations, and get everything prepared, _and_ eat dinner, all before bedtime."

"We can do teams!" Henry suggests, excited now, on a mission. "Half of us will get some stuff, and the other half get the rest."

"Alright," Robin declares, clapping his hands together. "Henry and I are going to go get us a tree, while you two," he looks between Regina and Roland, "Go get us some decorations. Does that sound good?"

"Yes!" Roland shouts, bouncing excitedly, and Regina grins and nods her approval.

"Sounds good to me," she agrees.

"Perfect!" Henry exclaims, declaring, "Operation Christmas Cheer is a go!"

**.::.**

"How about this one, 'Gina?" Roland asks, in the middle of Duane Reade's holiday department. She's also laden with trimmings - the basket she's carrying packed with a few boxes of glass balls for the tree, several lengths of cheap metallic garland colored like a peppermint stick, two packs of _actual_ peppermint sticks – candy canes to be hung like decoration – and a set of window clings.

Roland is holding up a cheerful ceramic snowman that looks like it could actually be breakable, and she rushes to grab it from him, correcting kindly, "Regina. And this is perfect." She flips it to check the price, then wedges it into the basket. "But we have to be careful not to get too much, or it won't fit in our basket."

"I can carry 'em," he insists, grabbing a reindeer and a Santa Claus from low shelves as well.

Cringing, Regina follows as he continues to peruse the aisle, urging, "Roland, remember to be careful. We don't want to drop anything. Why don't we put those in the basket?"

"The basket's getting full," he says, and he's right, he is, but he has the tiny hands of a four-year-old and he's not exactly focusing right now.

"Maybe we should get a second basket," she suggests. "But just one more, or we won't be able to carry everything home."

"Okay!" he agrees enthusiastically, and then he's off, headed back toward the front of the store. She calls his name sharply – more sharply than she'd meant to, but Henry's never been a runner, and Roland isn't hers, and well, it had just slipped out that way. Roland freezes immediately, but when he turns his head back toward her, it's with a mischievous little grin, like he knew he'd be stopped. She wonders if he's testing her, pushing her limits to see what he can get away with. They've never really been alone together before, she realizes, so she straightens her shoulders, puts herself firmly in Mom Mode and raises her eyebrows at him.

"Do not ever run away from me in public," she scolds mildly, strolling toward him and crouching until she's more on his level, not looking down at him. "I could lose you, and then we'd both be very scared. Okay?" He nods earnestly, and she continues, "And we don't run while we're holding things that could break." She had to set the basket on the ground to look him in the eye, but she points to it now, urging him, "In the basket, please."

Roland obeys, then holds out his hand for her. Regina takes it with a smile, thanking him before clutching the basket again and rising to her feet. They go back to the front of the store to get another basket, one that Roland insists he should carry. She lets him, asking him what else he thinks they need as they head back to the holiday supplies.

He looks at her basket, frowning, nearly tripping over his feet as he totes a basket half the side of him. Regina's hand moves to his shoulder immediately to steady him. "Did we get lights?" he asks her, and Regina shakes her head. They definitely did not get lights - in fact, she'd forgotten about them entirely. What a horror show that would've been when they'd gotten home. "Then we need lights," he nods firmly. "Twinkle ones." He draws out his, "And…" He scowls in a way that manages to bring out his dimples, and she can't help but grin. "A blanket for the tree? For the presents to go on?"

"Right," she agrees. "A tree skirt."

"A skirt?" he asks, brows lifting comically.

"That's what it's called," she explains, grabbing two packs of multicolored lights and setting them carefully in Roland's basket, and spying some swaths of fabric she hope will fit the bill down toward the end of the aisle. "Because it wraps around the bottom of the tree, like a skirt."

"What if it's a boy tree?" he asks her, and Regina smirks, shrugs.

"Boys can wear skirts too, if they like," she reasons, adding, "Boys in Scotland wear skirts - they're called kilts."

"I've seen kilts!" he pipes up. "The men in the parade had them, and I asked Mama why they were wearing skirts, and she said they're called kilts, and then said lots of things about why, but I don't remember."

"That's okay," Regina assures him, looking over the selection of what are, in fact, tree skirts. There's red felt, green felt, and something metallic that just looks… bad. She reaches for the red felt, asking Roland, "How about this one?"

"No, green," he protests. "Green's my favorite. And Daddy's."

"Ah, I see." Regina reaches for the green one, lays it in Roland's basket and watches as the little boy adjusts his grip on the handles, holding them in the crooks of his elbows. "How's that basket?" she asks. "Is it getting heavy?"

"Nope!" he declares, "I'm good." She thinks he's telling her the truth, but pats herself on the back for unknowingly solving their overbuying problem by giving the overflow basket to the one with weaker arms. At the very least, she knows they won't leave here with her entire bank account siphoned away. "Now we need a star, for the top."

"Yes, of course," she agrees, pursing her lips and scanning the aisle.

"I see 'em!" Roland exclaims, taking two steps back down the aisle before stopping and turning back to her. "They're right there." He jerks his head so hard she thinks he's gonna topple over, then asks, "Can I go pick one?"

"Of course you can, sweetheart, thank you for asking," she praises with a warm smile, following after him. There's not a wide selection, just one silver and one gold. Roland picks the gold, and Regina bites back the urge to tell him the silver might go better with all the decorations they picked out. She tosses the chosen star in with the rest of the things he carries, then surveys their baskets and says, "I think that's everything we need."

But Roland's not so sure. He frowns, tilts his head, works his little mouth from side to side and says, "We need _more_."

"More what?"

"More _Christmas,_" he insists. "I don't think this'll be enough. Daddy's house should be more Christmassy, all over it."

Regina scowls, tries to think of a cheap and easy way to up the "Christmas" factor. Roland squirms and shifts his hold on his basket once more.

When an idea comes to her, Regina grins and tells him, "I think I know just the thing."

They grab a cheap pack of Christmas cards – one of the ones crammed with 50 cards for five dollars, already bleeding so much glitter that her hands come away sparkly when she drops the pack into Roland's basket.

"We'll tape them to the walls, and put on them on the bookshelves," she tells him. "Christmas everywhere."

He grins up at her, oh-so-pleased. "Perfect!"

**.::. **

By the time they get back to Robin's, he and Henry have already procured their tree, and set it up in the alcove of the bay window (they'd shoved the couch forward a few feet before they left, making the living room almost impossibly cramped, but there's an outlet back there for the lights, and Robin had thought it would look nice from the street). There's also a wreath on the door, with a note in Henry's young handwriting that reads "Please don't steal me, or Santa will bring you coal," wrapped around it with ribbon.

Regina chuckles at it as she opens the door for Roland and herself, breathing in the scent of pine. Their own tree is artificial - a better option when you're planning on having it up for nearly a month, to be honest - but she'd had a real tree her whole life, and is simultaneously assaulted with every good memory of holidays with her father (baking Christmas cookies while her mother was out, dancing to holiday songs in her pajamas in their living room) and every bad memory of the holidays provided by her mother (Cora telling her that all those cookies would make her heavy, asking them to turn the music down – or better yet, off entirely – because she was working).

Pushing the thoughts out of her mind, she smiles at Robin tells him, "It looks like you've been busy."

"You, too," he observes, gesturing down to their bags as Roland pushes the one he'd been carrying into her hands and scampers over to join Henry on the other side of the room, where he's fiddling with the iHome on Robin's desk. He points to the lone paper bag, the one with Forbidden Fruit emblazoned on the side, and asks, "What's that?"

"Roland said he wanted to bake cookies, but it seemed like an awful lot of work. So I stopped by the bakery, and pilfered some of the dough for tomorrow's chocolate chip."

Robin _ooh_s eagerly, relieving her of that bag in particular, telling her, "I do," when she says she hopes he has a baking sheet.

"Great. Just slice and bake," she orders him. "350, until they're golden brown."

"Yes, your majesty," he calls back, with a grin she can hear in his voice, disappearing into the kitchen to do just that as she heads for the sofa, the cheerful, bouncy melody of "Feliz Navidad" filling the room moments later. The boys come over to help her unpack, Roland excitedly showing off every single item to Henry, and boogie-ing to the music as he does it.

Soon, they're well in the swing of things, the sweet, homey smell of baking cookies warring with the woodsy pine, the lights on the tree shining in cozy greens and reds, blues and yellows, as Regina strings hooks into the ball ornaments and passes them off to Roland and Henry, who handle the bottom and middle of the tree respectively, while Robin rounds out the topmost branches.

Roland sings along with every song, loudly, and so does Henry (although, at a much more respectable volume), and at one point, as Roland has run back to Regina for one of the very last balls (a green one this time - she's been saving the greens for him), Robin rounds the sofa and scoops the boy up, spinning him in circles, his legs out like a helicopter blade, singing along, too, while Roland dissolves into giggles.

"No, Daddy," he shrieks into his laughter, "You're s'posed to dance with Regina!"

She's not sure what they'd been doing could be called dancing, it was more a determined impression of a ceiling fan, but Robin still grinds to a halt mid-spin, and turns on her with a grin. He plops Roland down to the floor, and the boy wobbles a little, dizzy, as he comes for his ornament again while Robin declares, "I think that's a fine idea." He holds his hand out for Regina, and asks, "May I have this dance, milady?"

Regina chuckles and shakes her head, biting her lip as she stands, and Henry says from behind the sofa, "No gross stuff, okay?"

"On my honor," Robin assures him, pulling Regina into his arms and swaying with her as the voice from the speakers sings, _Christmas Eve will find me, where the love light gleams..._ Their eyes meet, his so, so blue and smiling, and for a moment everything else seems to fade. She's caught there with him, in his arms, drowning in his gaze, and she has the incredibly strong urge to do "gross stuff," particularly when his presses their joined hands over his heart, his other arm wrapped snugly around her hips. As the song fades out, _I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…_ he gets that look, the one he gets when he's about to kiss her, really kiss her, and Regina's breath catches. They're pulled together like magnets, slowly, slowly, and then he ducks in fast, pops a smooch on her mouth and pulls back, grinning, the moment effectively broken.

For a second, she blinks at him, bewildered, and then she laughs.

"What happened to your honor?" Henry chides, and Robin scoffs, releasing Regina when the song changes to "Away In A Manger," not exactly a danceable tune.

"My honor remains," he assures. "That was perfectly chivalrous, and not at all gross."

"Says you," Henry tells him with a wrinkled nose, Roland imitating his expression and nodding, declaring _Yuck_.

"Alright, men," Robin soothes, reaching for a box of candy canes and ripping at the plastic, as the buzzer goes off to signal the cookies are ready. "Let's get back to business, shall we?"

"I'll get the cookies," Regina assures, ducking into the kitchen to do just that. She crams them all onto his single, small cooling rack, telling herself that it's okay if they stick together, okay if the melted chocolate gets gooey on the bottoms of the top layer when she ends up having to stack some on top of the others.

While she's in there, she raids Robin's cupboards for something they can have for a proper dinner before the cookies, deciding that blue box mac and cheese will have to do – it's one of Henry's favorites anyway, and she can survive a night of powdered cheese sauce for the ease of not having to cook or wait for delivery. Her stomach is already rumbling, so she sneaks a cookie (who's going to see, and isn't she an adult, anyway? Nobody to tattle to, and Mother cannot see her from all these many, many miles away).

After a few minutes, Robin calls to her, "Did you get lost in there?"

She takes the few steps that will make her visible to the living room and informs him that she's making dinner, then watches as Henry's jaw drops indignantly. "You had a cookie!" he accuses. "_Before_ dinner."

Regina straightens her shoulders and defends, "I did not," but Robin cringes, and taps the corner of his lip.

"You've a bit of chocolate, my love," he tells her, and Regina licks at the corner of her mouth – caught. Sure enough, she tastes the sweetness.

"Well," she says guiltily. "I'm an adult. I'm allowed."

"Oh, that's just cruel," Robin chuckles, and Henry nods his agreement.

"Yeah," he agrees. "House rules – no dessert before dinner."

"Yeah, no dessert," Roland agrees, although he's mostly just following Henry's lead.

Henry holds out his hand, opening and closing it demandingly. "Pay up, Mom. If you get one, we do too."

Regina looks to Robin for backup, but he sells her out again, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but liars have to pay the price. One for each of us."

Scoffing, she turns back into the kitchen and pulls down a plate, doling out three cookies, then delivering them to the living room and the eager hands of her three favorite boys. She's still waiting for the water to boil in the kitchen, so she takes the time they use to scarf down their cookies to hang a few candy canes on the tree herself, making subtle adjustments to balls that are hanging too close together or too far apart, nudging the garland up a little here, down a little there.

"I have to say," she observes, "for a drugstore Christmas, this is looking pretty good."

The whole thing has come together well – her mother would have plenty to criticize, but Regina thinks it looks nice. Simple. Not the magazine-ready Christmas trees she'd grown up with, but… real.

"I think it's nearly finished," Robin agrees. "Just the star left." He holds it out to her in offering, suggests, "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Me?" Regina questions, shaking her head. "Oh, no. The youngest puts the star on the tree. It's tradition."

"Oh, I see," Robin says, shifting the star toward his son. It's usually Henry's job, but he doesn't seem at all bothered by the turn of events. He'll top their tree tomorrow, after all. "Roland?"

"I can't reach," Roland tells him, and Regina doesn't hesitate for a moment in holding her arms out to him, insisting that she'll help. He grins, then, clambering over the back of the sofa and into her arms. She adjusts him against her hip, then holds tightly as he leans back to take the star from Robin. The tree isn't very tall, so she doesn't have to hoist Roland much higher for him to settle it onto the very top. He makes it a two-handed job, though, grasping at the topmost branch, then giggling, "Ouch!" when the spines dig into his palm. Regina shifts her grip on him, pushing him a little closer, a little higher, bracing his torso with her hand so he's steadier when he tries again, and this time he gets the star in place without much trouble.

If it's a little crooked, nobody seems to mind.

Roland looks to her, grinning proudly, and she can't help but grin back, turning them around toward Robin and Henry and presenting the tree with a Vanna White-eqsue flourish of one arm.

Henry studies it with his arms crossed, then gives a nod of approval. "Yep," he declares. "_Now_ it's Christmas."

Robin slings an arm over his shoulder and says he can't help but agree.

**.::.**

Later, when they're finally all in tucked in, Henry on the sofa, Roland in his usual "bed," and Robin and Regina in the bedroom, Regina asks him, "How'd things go with Marian?" She cranes her neck around toward him - they're back to front, spooned together – clarifying, "Did you get a chance to talk?"

Robin nods and kisses her cheek, then urges her forward again and nuzzles his nose into her hair, his hand wandering lazily over her body as he answers, "We did, quite a bit, actually. I think we're finally on the same page. I hurt her more than I thought by not being honest about you, about your relationship with Roland."

Regina frowns at that, telling him, "I still can't figure out why you thought that was a good plan."

"I was an idiot," he sighs, fingers wandering along the waist of her pajama bottoms – she'd brought her own this time, since she knew she'd be spending the night – skimming bare skin just above in a way that makes her shiver and sigh.

"Yes, you were," she breathes, before teasing, "You're lucky you're so good-looking, or I might still be angry with you."

He snorts a laugh into her hair, mutters, "Yes, I'm sure it's my good looks that saved me." And then, "But we agreed that she won't cut my time on short notice anymore, and we're going to try to agree on a schedule that gives me a little more time. I've asked the university if I can teach the evening session of Invention of Lit - it's three hours on Monday evening, I'd be able to get him on Thursday nights, then, if he could skip Friday preschool. Marian said that's fine with her."

"Good," Regina murmurs back to him, his fingers are on her belly now, swirling aimlessly against her skin, making goosebumps flare, tightening her nipples. "And Christmas?"

His heavy sigh disturbs her hair, tickles along her neck. "She's still deciding. Honestly, I think it will be depend on how things go when you meet – she's going to drive him down for his next visit."

A flash of nerves heats Regina's stomach, and she mutters, "No pressure, then."

His hand slips from her shirt, then, lifts to her chin and turns her head toward him again. She shifts to get a better look at him, and he props his head up to meet her eyes. "Whatever she decides, it's not up to you."

"You just said–"

"I know what I said, and I'm telling you that whatever she decides about you, that's on her. I won't blame you if she decides to be stubborn about this."

A bit of doubt creeps into her voice - she knows how important his time with Roland is - as she asks, "Are you sure?"

"Positive," he insists, sealing it with a lingering kiss.

They both settle back against the mattress, and his hand finds its way back under her top, tracing tickling patterns around her navel, across her ribs, skimming the bottoms of her breasts. It's that last one that does it, sends little frissons of heat between her thighs and makes her squirm. "Robin…" she breathes warningly. At his answering _hmm?_, she tells him, "Don't start something you have no intention of finishing." And just in case he wasn't sure: "And this is definitely starting."

His voice is a low rumble in her ear: "Who says I've no intention of finishing?"

Regina catches her lip in her teeth, briefly, then whispers, "The boys…"

"Are asleep," he says back, his tone equally quiet, hand growing bolder now that she's acknowledged it. He strokes his fingers up the swell of her breast, finds a tight nipple and thrums it with his thumb. Regina's breath deepens, then catches when he grasps it and gives a slow, gentle twist. Heat skitters down her belly, has her rocking her hips back against him subtly. He's already half-hard against her rear.

"Very close by," she reminds breathlessly, and he squeezes and tugs, has her clamping her teeth down onto that lip again.

"Then you'll have to be very quiet," he mutters, nuzzling her hair away from her neck and starting to plant hot, tongue-filled kisses there. Regina tilts her head back with a sigh, and gives in, praying he's locked the door. She lets one hand move back to trail into his hair, weaving and clutching as his teeth scrape lightly against sensitive skin.

She presses her thighs together, wonders how he can make her so wet so quickly when she feels everything slide slickly at the he's shifting behind her, moving closer until he has his bicep pillowed under her head, his other hand pushing at her pajama bottoms. She wriggles until he manages to push them down off her hips, then shuffles and kicks her legs free as he pushes his own down, too.

His erection bumps against her rear as he reaches around the front of her again, fingers coasting down her thighs, then drawing one up until she bends her leg, hooking her ankle behind his knee. She's already taking quick, heavy breaths when he finds his way back between her legs, fingertips skimming along her clit, coasting through her wetness with a groan.

"Already, lovely?" he asks, and she feels her cheeks heat as she nods. His fingers sink into her with little resistance, his thumb rubbing against her clit as they begin to thrust. She lets out a little whimper, and he shushes her softly, earning a retaliatory tug on his hair. "Just feel," he murmurs, and, God, if this is going to be another time he talks to her through the whole thing, she thinks she might lose it.

But he doesn't, not this time, just pumps his fingers in and out steadily, first two, then slipping in a third when she's rocking into every thrust, her ass grinding against him, a light bloom of sweat between her skin and the flannel of her pajama top. It's that third finger that has her fisting the pillow and dragging it to her face, pressing her mouth into it and letting out a moan she can't suppress. She hears his quiet moan in echo, and his fingers start to fuck her faster, curling harder, pressing into that _spot_ that makes her thighs begin to quake. Oh… _Oh…_

He keeps it up for a few more minutes before he whispers, "Are you ready for me?" and, God, yes, she is, she really, really is. Needs him, wants him, inside her, right now. When his fingers draw out of her she starts to turn, but he stops her with a hand on her hip, then reaches down between them and guides himself to her just the way they are, spooned together like this. She adjusts slightly to accommodate him, and he sinks the tip into her, then settles his hand on her hip again and steadies it as he pushes in the rest of the way.

_Oh_.

Regina's jaw drops, pleasure sloshing through her in a wave as the tip of him pushes perfectly into just that spot, shoving a heavy, broken exhale from her.

"Good?" he asks, and she nods, hisses _yesss…_ before he draws back and does it again, harder this time.

Regina practically chokes on a moan, swallowing it down and pressing her face back into the pillow, fingers gripping at the plush softness.

And then he starts in earnest, a strong, quick rhythm inside her, and Regina has to bite down, huffing air out through her nose, because _oh my god_, _oh_, it's exquisite, the angle is perfect, the pressure is perfect, and she's squeezing her eyes shut and keeping quiet by sheer force of will. When his hand leaves her hip and finds her breast instead, tugging and squeezing at a nipple, she mashes her face into the pillow and lets out a plaintive wail.

He stills, asks breathlessly, "You alright?" and Regina lets go of the pillow with a gasp.

"Too much," she pleads. "I can't be quiet – you have to – slow down."

"Okay," he murmurs, drawing back slowly, then pushing in slowly, and it's still incredible, but it's bearable, doesn't have her choking back cries of pleasure anymore. He sets a lazy, languid rhythm, in then out, fingers gripping one nipple, then the other, teasing them in turn, and Regina manages to keep it down to soft moans, low in her throat. Pleasure burns through her, every slick slide of him between her thighs a technicolor marvel of it, and she can't do much but lie there and revel.

Her fingers are in his hair again, clutching and stroking, and she manages to push back into his rhythm, hips rending and sewing, rending and sewing, and her back is slick with sweat.

She's not sure quite how long they keep it up that way, slow and measured, undoing her bit by bit, but eventually his fingers skate down her belly again, slipping along damp skin. When he brushes her clit, she jerks like he's a live wire, the sensation sharp and ecstatic. She groans and turns her face into the pillow, muffling herself through another low moan, her belly scrunching tight when he begins to rub at her. Her hips jerk again, and he almost slips out of her, fingers moving to grip her hip again quickly, drawing her back to him.

"Touch yourself, love," he urges, voice low and tense, "I'm going to go hard again, so you can come."

_So she can come_, she repeats her in her head, because it is ridiculous. She could come just like this, as long as there was something on her clit - hell, maybe even without that. But she wants to feel it again, the harsh, deep pleasure his quicker thrusts had given her, so she lets go of the pillow and breathes, "Okay." She draws her own fingers down, presses them against her clit and rubs and quakes.

His fingers tighten on her hip, and then he's humping into her again, quick and hard, and the bed is squeaking but it doesn't matter, because she has the pillow tight between her teeth again, fisting it, his every thrust pushing her hips against her fingers, she doesn't even have to move, just has to press firmly, and then she's coming, hard, lights popping behind her eyelids, shivers over her skin, breath harsh and hard as wave after wave of pleasure rocks her. She wants to cry out, wants desperately to scream the rafters down, but she can't, she can't, Henry, and Roland, and there's a litany of curses in her head, a cacophony of sound she has to silence, all she can do is huff and gasp, her fingers leaving her clit to scrabble at the sheets, to scratch at his thigh.

He finally comes with a groan, going still, and Regina lets out a shuddering exhale that is probably as loud as any of the moans she'd stifled. She hopes to high heaven that the boys are sound asleep.

"Oh my God," she gasps, trembling even as he slips out of her, her thigh falling forward, knee thunking against the mattress with a soft bounce. "Oh my God…"

"We're doing that again," he declares breathlessly, and all she can do is groan. "Some afternoon, you're going to come here, and we're going to do that again when you don't have to be quiet."

"God, yes," she agrees, shifting and sighing, "Please tell me you locked that door?"

"I did," he chuckles, pressing a kiss into her flannel-clad shoulder, and Regina exhales in relief and kicks all the covers down and away, pushing her top up to the bottom of her breasts and letting the cool air hit her hot, sweaty skin.

"Let me help," he murmurs teasingly, sitting up and tugging at her buttons until they're loose and she's bare from neck to toes. He looks her over once, then declares, "Much better."

Robin settles next to her again, traces his fingertips in lazy swirls over her sweat-slicked belly, but this time it soothes instead of riles, and she lets her eyes fall shut to enjoy it.

His voice comes to her, quiet, just a whisper of her name, and she hums in acknowledgement.

"Thank you for a wonderful holiday," he tells her, and she smiles, turns her head and finds his lips with eyes still shut.

Wonderful, indeed.


	10. Week Nine

The first week of December, Regina gets sick.

She feels it first on Monday - a sluggishness she just can't shake. But Robin had spent the night, and once again they'd been up past her bedtime. Maybe it was finally catching up with her, the weeks of skimming hours off her usual sleep schedule in exchange for shivering orgasms and late night murmurings. But by mid-morning, she can feel it in her lungs, that heavy tightness of a chest cold. The back of her throat itches, too, and then starts to hurt, and by the time Belle comes in, Regina's too warm in even her t-shirt and is sick enough that it shows.

"Are you alright?" Belle asks carefully, and Regina looks up balefully from the batch of bread she is prepping. "You don't look well."

The younger woman's face is so full of genuine concern that Regina folds and admits, "I feel like crap."

"You should go home," Belle insists, "Get some rest. Maybe even take the day off tomorrow..?"

It's a ridiculous suggestion, that last part in particular. There is no taking days off when you are solely responsible for producing the merchandise that keeps your business afloat. (There's Sunday, sure, but she preps for Sunday, and they are only open for six hours. Regulars know Sunday is not a day you might catch croissants with the chocolate still gooey when you bite in, or a creative new mini pie you haven't tried before. Sundays are for cookies, sliced from the roll of dough Regina mixed the day before and baked as needed throughout the day by Belle, and for thick, sweet, Rice Krispy treats sliced off the pan to-order. It is the one day a week you can get a breakfast of yogurt and granola and fruit compote.)

Even taking the afternoon off isn't an option, because, "Tomorrow is Tuesday. I have bread to prep."

"I'm sure our patrons would rather buy no bread than bread made by Typhoid Mary," Belle tries to convince, and Regina's scowl deepens.

"Typhoid Mary had no symptoms," she gripes. "Your comparison doesn't hold water."

"Regina, the world won't end if you take care of yourself," Belle tries again, offering, "I can manage for a few days if you need someone to pick up the slack."

But Regina will hear none of it, tells Belle to get to work and leave her alone, and Belle gives up and does just that.

By two, it is Regina who gives up, sweating through her t-shirt, her fingers weak as she pulls a pan of muffins from the oven. It feels heavy, it bobbles, she nearly burns herself.

"I need to go home," she tells Belle, defeated.

Belle looks at her, and frowns, and says, "Lay out the recipes for our five most popular muffins, and the five easiest pies, and take one day off, Regina. Please."

Regina feels so wretched (and Belle is so earnest in her pleading) that she actually agrees.

By dinnertime, she has a fever of 102.4 and Robin is there, frowning over her and forcing Advil and water and orange juice. He helps Henry with his homework, and makes them grilled cheese and soup for dinner. Regina has soup, but no sandwich, and she only eats half a bowl before announcing she wants to lay down again. She disappears into her room and sleeps like the dead.

**.::.**

She doesn't wake until noon on Tuesday, and her fever is even higher, her body stiff and achy, like one big bruise, and she coughs and coughs and is generally a mess. She texts Belle, who assures her things are fine, who asks if she needs another day off. Regina tells her no, but Belle says she'll check in later anyway.

_Are people complaining?_ Regina asks.

Belle replies, _No, they're quite fond of my pumpkin pies_, with a smiley face and a wink and a dancing lady in a red dress.

Regina stares blankly at that last emoji for at least a minute, baffled, and then sets the phone down and curls into a tighter ball under her thick covers.

When she wakes again hours later, it's to the sight of a big, colorful bouquet on her nightstand. Lilies and roses and golden sunflowers dwarf her water glass (it was nearly empty the last time she sipped from it, but now it's full), and the half-drunk, ice cold mug of tea that had been next to it is gone, a fresh bag of Ricolas in its place.

_Robin_, she thinks with a small smile, pushing her covers back and shivering despite the heat she can feel in her cheeks, in the dryness of her lips.

She plods into the kitchen and there Robin is, watching over Henry again as he works on his homework. He rises when he sees her, meets her halfway between her bedroom and the kitchen table.

"You brought me flowers," she says with the best smile she can muster, tugging her robe more tightly around her torso as a chill aches through her.

"I did," he says with a nod, and a smirk, and, "It occurred to me it had been a while since I'd brought you any, and I know you're feeling poorly. Although, technically, they're from both of us." He nods his head in Henry's direction. "Henry was insistent on only the best bouquet for his ailing mother."

Her son looks up and grins proudly. "Did we do a good job?" Henry asks, and Regina smiles again, and nods.

"You did a wonderful job," she assures. "Thank you," she looks back to Robin, "Both of you."

Robin lifts a hand to brush an errant lock of hair from her brow, then informs her that Emma had to leave town to follow up on a case, that he's more than happy to stay the night and see Henry off to school in the morning, and that there's no way, absolutely no way, that she is well enough to go into the bakery tomorrow.

"I've already spoken with Belle," he tells her, and she frowns, glares, hopes it's still effective with her wrapped in a thick robe over warm pajamas (they're deep magenta with purple hearts and silver snowflakes, not really her speed, but they were a Christmas gift from Henry when he was six, and she loves them dearly), her hair unwashed, her face pale.

"I didn't ask you to do that," she tells him darkly, and she even _sounds_ sick, her voice raspy from the coughing she's been having trouble quelling whenever she's awake.

"No, you didn't, but you were sleeping, and she asked me how you were feeling. Would you rather I'd have lied?" he questions, hands settling on her tense and hunched shoulders. She'd shrug him off, but truth be told, she doesn't feel quite steady on her feet, and his hands are anchoring her.

"Yes," she bites, and maybe she's being ridiculous (she feels awful, awful, worse than she's willing to admit, like "death on toast" as Ruby would say), but she hates missing work. The bakery is her livelihood, she needs to _be_ there.

"Well, I'm not terribly inclined to do that," he tells her easily, not thrown in the least by her temper (he rarely is, and she wonders how that can be). "Especially not when you look like you're about to fall over, lovely."

Regina straightens her spine, pulls her shoulders back, is sucking in a breath to say she's fine, but the rush of air hits her throat just so, and she's coughing. Coughing, and coughing again, each one harsh and burning in her chest, a painful, barking sound. When Robin draws her in against him, she doesn't resist, can't. He supports her with an arm around her waist, his other hand rubbing circles into her back as she coughs into her own cupped hand and his shoulder.

When the coughing subsides, he practically pleads with her, "Regina, you're not well. You cannot work like this; stay home tomorrow. Please."

She makes a little noise of protest, but if she's being honest, she has to admit that in that very moment, all she wants is to bury herself under her covers and sleep for days.

Robin's chin moves to rest against her forehead for a second, and then his lips press to her brow, and he makes an unhappy sound. "You're so warm," he murmurs against her skin. "Why don't you lie down on the sofa for a bit? We can put on a movie, I'll make you something to eat…"

"I'm not hungry," she protests, but he makes her something anyway. Toast, which Henry doctors with butter and cinnamon and sugar - way more than is necessary, it crunches in her teeth as she chews, but she realizes she's hungry after all, so she doesn't complain.

Robin sets her up on the sofa with blankets and pillows, tea and water, handing her a thermometer once she's all settled in and earning himself a glare. "I don't need you to play nursemaid," she gripes at him, popping it into her mouth regardless.

"Is she always this surly when she's sick?" Robin asks Henry (he's in the papasan, done with his homework now, munching on the bowl of mac and cheese Robin has made for him. Regina's too tired to protest the food in the living room).

"Yep," Henry tells him matter-of-factly. "She hates not being able to work. It makes her grumpy."

"I am not grumpy," Regina grumbles, around the thermometer, earning a look from Robin.

"Don't talk yet," her urges. "Let that beep first."

She bites down on the plastic, annoyed, lifting her fingers to wedge it further under her tongue.

"You're super grumpy," Henry insists, and Regina can't do anything but sigh. "But it's okay. Robin and I are going to take care of you."

The smile her son gives her is so sweet, she can't help but melt just a little, smiling back softly and nodding, and then the thermometer is giving the quick, frantic beep of a temperature well over 100 degrees, and Robin frowns and reaches for it.

"103.1," he announces, concerned, and Regina tugs a blanket over her shoulder anyway, presses her cheek against the pillow beneath her head.

"Fine," she mutters. "I'll call Belle after the movie."

It's _Hercules_ today, and Regina barely makes it through the opening sequence before she's sound asleep again, her feet pillowed on Robin's lap.

**.::.**

By Wednesday night, she feels filmy and grimy. Sweaty. Disgusting.

She hasn't showered since early Monday morning, and she's been running a fever that bounces between the high 102s and low 103s for nearly three days now. To make matters worse, the fever has come with aches and chills, so she's been cocooned in her thick down comforter.

All she wants in the world is a shower. A hot, steamy shower to wash away this clinging feeling of illness, but her chest is a mess. She sleeps with a humidifier now, the dry air of the apartment tickling her lungs. She's not quite steady on her feet, and she's not sure if it's because she's still really that sick, or simply because she's spent most of the last 72 hours horizontal. Either way, her treks between the couch, her bed, the kitchen, and the bathroom are exhausting ventures made on weak knees. She's not sure how she'd fare for half an hour under the warm spray of the showerhead, and she's not stupid enough to find out.

But when Robin comes home with Henry at half past four, she wastes no time in requesting an assist.

"I'm disgusting," she insists from her place on the sofa, and he shakes his head, says _Beautiful_ and leans down to kiss her lips.

Regina frowns, deeply. "I don't need you to lie to me. And how are you not catching this?"

"It's not a lie. You are beautiful," he insists, before admitting, "if a little ripe." She gives him a pointed look. "And I'm not catching your flu because I got my flu shot – something you should consider next year, if you're so concerned about not missing work."

She glares, scowls, then tugs him in closer and mutters, "Stop talking and take my clothes off."

Robin grins, shaking his head and telling Henry, "I need to help your mother take a shower, since she's still feeling a bit weak. Homework now, or homework later?"

"Later," Henry answers, looking to Regina for permission, and she nods. "Can I watch Harry Potter?" he asks hopefully, and she shakes her head.

""That's a bit _too_ 'later' for that homework, young man," she informs. "You have half an hour, then I want you to start on it, okay?"

He sighs, but nods obediently, plunking down into the papasan chair and reaching for the remote as Regina hauls herself up and off the couch with Robin's help, then leads him to the bathroom.

It's not until they get there that she realizes with a frown, "I have nothing clean to put on."

He doesn't either, so he leaves her to start the water and ducks back out to her bedroom, returning a few minutes later with fresh pajamas and underthings for her, and the spare pair of sleep pants and extra t-shirt he's taken to keeping at her place.

She's already in the shower, one hand braced against the tile wall, steam beginning to gather in the air around her as she stands under the hot spray of the water. He strips and joins her, stepping close and lifting a hand to comb through her hair, urging her head back slightly until the water sluices over it. Regina feels better already, if a little weak, a little warm.

Speaking of warm, "Are you sure you want the water this hot, lovely?" he asks her. "You'll overheat with that fever."

Regina nods her head, letting her eyes slip shut and pretending she doesn't sway at all on her feet. "I'm cold," she sighs, even though logically she knows her body is not.

Robin lets it slide, carding his fingers through her hair again until it's soaked through, then reaching for her shampoo. As he pours it into his palm, she turns, lets the water wash over her front so he can lather up her hair. He works the shampoo in, then keeps going, kneading his fingers along her scalp, making goosebumps rise on her skin despite the heat of the water. He circles firmly along her hairline, behind her ears, works his way around until his fingers are pressing firmly up and down the nape of her neck, slippery with suds.

Regina moans softly and sighs, letting her head tip forward until the tip of her nose hits the stream. After a moment, she feels a bead of sudsy water start to slide down her forehead and lifts her head, brushing it away. So much for that...

"Does this feel good?" he asks her softly, barely more than a whisper over the dull rain of the shower. The room is steamy and fragrant now, smells vaguely of apples from her fruity shampoo.

Her voice is low and throaty, and still a little hoarse, when she answers, "Feels amazing. Don't stop…"

"Perhaps another backrub after your shower?" he suggests, thumbs working across the tight muscles of her shoulders.

Her lips curve softly, another sigh falling from her lips. "You're too good to me," she murmurs, leaning back into his touch.

"I like to think I'm just good enough," he teases lightly. She can practically hear the smirk in his voice. And then he's urging her to turn again, to tip her head back, scrubbing his fingers gently through her hair to help the lather rinse out.

Her eyes are still shut and it's messing with her balance, his fingers lulling her, she feels half-drunk or half-asleep, she's not sure. But Robin notices, he must, because he's stepping closer, one arm winding around her waist and holding her steady as the other hand continues to work every last bit of shampoo from her hair. Pressed up against him like this, she can feel him half-hard, his cock bumping her belly, and even as shitty as she still feels, it sends a satisfied little thrill through her. She'd had a hand on the wall again, anchoring herself in the self-imposed darkness, but she lets it drop, lets it slip between them, wraps her fingers around him and strokes a little clumsily.

His low chuckle rumbles against her, but his fingers loop her wrist a moment later, drawing her hand away from him. "Not now," he urges as she blinks her eyes open, finally, lashes fluttering again for a moment when he leans in to buss her lips lightly. "This is for you."

"That could be for me," she teases with a smirk, his hands urging her to turn again, then reaching for conditioner.

"Are you sure you're up to that?" he asks, his tone making it perfectly clear that he doesn't think she is.

And he's right, so she frowns, almost pouts, and admits, "No," as he begins to work conditioner into her hair. Much to her chagrin, he doesn't spend nearly as much time on it as he had the shampoo. Once it's worked through, he reaches almost immediately for the red mesh sponge hanging off the hanger, asking her to pick a soap. She tells him _lavender_, and he gets the sponge good and soapy, runs it along her arms from shoulder to fingertips, her legs from hip to ankle. Scrubs her back, and then her front, until she has a frothy coat of bubbles adorning nearly every inch below the neck.

He's running the sponge from hipbone to hipbone, and then suddenly he's not. There's a wet plop as it falls to the tub, landing between Regina's feet, and then his suds-slicked hand is slipping down, between her thighs. Regina's breath hitches at the unexpected contact, her gaze flicking up to his.

Those warm blue eyes are on her face, dancing with mirth. "I need to get in all the crevices," he tells her with a serious frown that is startlingly reminiscent of Roland's.

She blinks, puts the comparison out of her mind and spreads her legs a little wider to accommodate him, sighing gamely, "If you must."

"Oh, I must," he assures her – and he does, digits slicking soap into every nook and cranny, gently, teasingly. Not that it's easy to avoid, considering where his hand is tucked away, but he manages to flit across her more sensitive parts more often than not.

"Now, I was under the impression you didn't think I was up to this," she teases breathily as his thumb brushes her clit again.

"I'm cleaning," he tells her, mock-earnestly, circling her clit more intentionally. "It's been days since you've showered; I must be thorough. You could be dirty."

And then he smirks, bites his lip, and his hand is moving, still slippery and soapy, curving around behind her rear and skating between her cheeks, swiping soap there, too. Regina's feels herself flush slightly and fights the urge to squirm. Instead, she swings her reaction the opposite direction, lifting one brow suggestively and pressing back into his touch before teasing, "I _could_ be dirty," in a way that makes it very clear she's not talking about physical dirt.

Robin lets out a low chuckle, amused, aroused, his brows lifting in surprise. "Oh, could you?"

But Regina's not quite that adventurous, not really, so she shakes her head with a near-giggle, and admits, "No."

Robin's still chuckling at her, leaning in and kissing her brow as his fingers slide away. "You _are_ feeling better," he murmurs, and she realizes that yes, actually, in this exact moment she does feel better. Not well, not by a long shot. But better.

It doesn't last.

Within minutes, she's rinsed and dried, tucked into clean pajamas and her robe again, and suddenly that lightness she'd had a few moments ago is gone, replaced by a heavy, dragging tiredness.

She barely makes it through dinner before she's on the sofa again, sound asleep.

**.::.**

It's not until Thursday night that it occurs to her she has missed storytime with Henry for the entire week, her illness dragging her down into sleep before their usual hour.

She's determined today. She's going to stay awake late enough to read to him, even if she has to do it right here on the sofa. The sofa that Emma (back in town and smug with the satisfaction of a job well done) is insisting she's going to have to "Lysol the crap out of" after all the flu germs Regina has marinated it with this week.

"Seriously, I mean, your own bed wasn't good enough?" she grouses, and Regina scowls, glares.

"My bed doesn't have TV," she points out as Emma hands her a bowl of the ice cream Robin is in the kitchen dishing out. She's made it through the entirety of the first season of Gilmore Girls on Netflix during her waking hours this week, and isn't sure if she should be proud of that or ashamed.

"So read a book," the blonde replies with a shrug, plopping down onto the other end of the sofa with her own bowl despite her complaints.

Regina's frown deepens - she should've. She should've spent this week with her nose in a book, doing something at least remotely productive. Instead, she'd taken turns zoning out staring at the TV screen, sleeping, coughing up a disturbing amount of mucus, and fretting over work. Belle is still insisting hourly (because Regina texts her nearly that often) that everything is fine, the place has not burned down, the customers are sending their good well wishes and nothing more. Robin has assured her much the same, having been by just this afternoon with Henry and Emma - the latter had texted Regina a photo of Robin behind the counter, ringing up a patron while Belle worked in the back, on her own for the last few hours of the day with Ashley at an unexpected audition and Ruby gone for the afternoon. It had charmed her, the sight of him there, helping her even though he didn't have to. She'd wondered not for the first time what she'd ever done to deserve him.

There'd been another picture a few minutes later - Henry back there with him, pointing at the register with a big grin and a thumbs up. That one had come from Robin with the question, _Is it considered child labor if it's __**your**__ child, I wonder?_

Regina had ached, burned with the need to _be_ there - to be where she was needed instead of on the sofa for _another_ day with a fever of 102.8.

"Hello there, Miss French," Robin's voice cuts into her thoughts as he answers his ringing cell phone. It's Belle, and Regina's immediate thought is that something must be wrong at the bakery, even though she knows Belle should be long gone from there by now. "What can I do for you?"

And then he's laughing, asking, "Well why were you drying your hair in the kitchen in the first place?" and then telling her, "Good for you," and "There's a panel on the wall above the fridge. It's the third switch down."

Regina blinks, processes.

The fuse box.

Belle is at Robin's.

He's off the phone moments later, still chuckling – until he spies Regina, who realizes as he tilts his head curiously at her that she's scowling deeply. She schools her face into something less surly and asks politely, "Is Belle at your place?"

He nods, digs his spoon into the ice cream in his bowl and tells her, "She's been there all week. I thought you knew."

"I didn't," Regina tells him, glancing down at her own bowl and swirling her spoon into the side of the slowly melting treat. It's peppermint stick - pale pink peppermint ice cream with little chunks of candy cane in it. Henry and Emma have practically drowned theirs in chocolate sauce. Regina lifts a bite, lets the cool sweetness melt on her tongue.

"Oh," Robin says, as though he's simply forgotten to tell her that he switched from cable to dish or something, not that there's another woman staying at his house. _Belle_, she reminds herself, telling herself to snap out of it. Belle, whom she trusts, staying with Robin whom she trusts, and there certainly has to be a reason for it. Sure enough, Robin continues with, "She's been there all week. It's a much kinder commute than Williamsburg, and it's not as if I've been sleeping there."

He's right, she thinks. He's been here, tending to her, and Belle's commute would be hell at the time she'd have to leave in order to start the prep at the bakery before hours. So she pushes down the momentary swell of jealousy, and nods, smiles. "True," she tells him.

"Are you okay with this?" he asks, and she curses the fact that he can read her as well as he can.

The first response that comes to mind is _You're asking me __**now**__?_, but Regina is fairly certain this surge of jealousy is ridiculously unwarranted (if she wasn't worried about him spending the night with Marian, his ex-wife, whom he slept with and had a child with and lived with for years, there's no reason for her to feel uneasy about Belle), so she goes with the second thought: "Of course. I just didn't know."

"I thought I'd told you," he tells her, leaning over the back of the sofa and dropping a kiss onto her warm brow. "Apologies, my love."

The endearment has the corners of her mouth tipping up, her jealousy fizzling out. He's been calling her that lately - my love. She's "lovely" most often, occasionally "beautiful," or "my sweet," but "my love" has entered the vocabulary and she's not sure if she should put stock in it or not. If it means he's feeling what she's feeling. Either way, it's enough to settle her jangled nerves.

She has nothing to worry about.

Nothing but keeping her eyes open long enough to make storytime.

She succeeds at that, has Henry snuggled in next to her at eight o'clock sharp, and tries to ignore the lance of disappointment she feels when she discovers that he's three chapters ahead of where they left off on Sunday night. Robin's doing.

She makes it to 8:37 before she's yawning, her eyes drooping and grainy and sore with exhaustion.

Once again, Robin is the one to usher Henry off to bed, and Regina falls asleep on the sofa.

**.::.**

She wakes in the middle of the night, in darkness aside from the blurry red and green lights from the Christmas tree in the corner. She's still on the sofa. She's hot, too hot, drenched with sweat, slicked with it all down her belly and back, across her brow. With a groan, she kicks off the covers, tugs her pajama top up her belly and sighs at the welcome coolness.

It takes a few sleepy moments, but her temperature starts to normalize, and the realization dawns on her: Her fever has broken.

Finally.

Her eyes fall shut again, and for a while, she sleeps peacefully.

She wakes again, before dark, back under her covers, her skin sticky, tacky, filmed over with dried sweat.

She should shower.

Regina squints at the digital clock on the cable box. 4:18am.

Perfect, Regina thinks with a sigh, sitting up.

She won't even be that late for work.

**.::.**

When she walks into Forbidden Fruit at twenty past five, Belle is there. There, and "frightened half to death, I wasn't expecting anyone until Ruby" and glaring.

"You're supposed to be resting," she scolds, and Regina peels out of her jacket and her hat and gloves, unwinds her scarf.

As she does, she insists, "I've rested enough. I've done nothing but rest for three whole days. My fever has broken, I am up on my feet, and I am here."

If she's still feeling a little weak-kneed, well, that's likely because she's hardly eaten a full meal since Monday. And that tiredness tickling at the back of her skull is the result of far too much sleep, more than her body is used to.

"I'm staying," Belle insists.

"I'm not contagious," Regina counters, tipping her chin up and staring Belle down (which is ridiculous, because she's Belle's boss. It should be enough that she says she's well).

"I'm sure you're right, but you still don't look all that hot, and I'm already here," the other brunette reasons. "We can work together. That way if you need to take a break, you can."

Regina has a sharp retort ready, right on the tip of her tongue, but deep down she recognizes her own stubbornness. She's better, but not one hundred percent, and having an extra pair of hands around for the day won't hurt.

"Fine," she agrees. Then she rubs her hands together and smiles. "Now, what are we going to make for the daily special?"

**.::.**

_Are you at work?_

The text message comes in at 6:45 on the nose, and her phone is ringing before she even has a chance to type a response.

"I am," she answers Robin verbally instead as she lifts the phone to her ear. "And before you lecture me, I'm feeling fine." She's not. She's tired. Really tired. She's sitting on a stool next to the prep table sipping tea while Belle loads muffins into the oven and Ruby takes orders at the counter. But she's here, and there are chocolate croissants back on the menu, and chocolate bourbon pecan mini pies on special, and she'd rather be here than on her godforsaken couch for another day.

"You are?" Robin asks doubtfully.

"My fever broke last night."

"You could've left a note," he mutters, sighing, and Regina feels a twinge of guilt that she didn't do just that. He'd been sleeping in her room when she left, and she hadn't wanted to disturb him (on the off chance he'd woken, she knows he'd have tried to talk her into one more day of rest, and she thinks that one more day might have sent her absolutely stir-crazy). "I woke and you were nowhere to be found; I was worried. You should've let me know."

That twinge of guilt softens her tone a little, has her sighing as she concedes, "I know, I'm sorry. I just really needed to be here. I could not spend another day in that apartment."

"Are you sure you're feeling up to working?" he asks, and she can almost see the way his brows would be scrunched together, the way his mouth would twist with concern.

"I'm positive. Besides, I'd have had to leave the apartment anyway. I have errands to run. I need to get a dress for that faculty party next week."

It's been looming over her - Robin's department holiday party, next Thursday night. Where she will have to smile and make conversation and try not to embarrass herself somehow in front of all his esteemed colleagues.

"You don't need to buy anything new," he insists. "You're stunning. You can wear something from your closet, and you will be the loveliest woman there by far."

"You're just saying that because you get to see me naked on a regular basis."

Belle scoffs a laugh from nearby, and Regina grabs a towel off the prep table and whaps her with it. Belle rolls her eyes and yanks the towel away, using it to wipe errant flour off the tabletop.

"I am not." His voice drops a little as he adds, "Although I do rather enjoy that perk."

Regina chuckles, then tells him, "I want something new. Something nice. For me. You may still think I'm sexy when I'm feverish and in my pajamas, but it takes a little more than that for me to feel it too."

"Why do you need to feel sexy?" he grumps, with just enough humor that she can tell he's teasing. "Is there someone in my department you're hoping to impress?"

"Yes," she says earnestly. And then, "You."

Before he can start insisting again that she doesn't need to do anything to impress him, she tells him she needs to get back to work.

His sigh comes over the line again, and then, "Please don't overextend yourself, lovely. I want you well."

"I am, and I won't," she assures him, before they say their goodbyes and hang up.

She slides off the stool onto her feet and rolls her shoulders, sighs and forces back her growing exhaustion. She has another batch of pies to prep, and more croissants after that.

And she's done being sick.

**.::.**

By noon, she is absolutely spent.

"Go home," Belle is insisting again, "before I have to start worrying about leaving you unattended, lest you trip over your own two feet and pitch headfirst into the oven or something equally horrifying. I'm not sure Robin would forgive me if I let you crack your skull open rather than argue with you."

"I'm fine," Regina tells her for the umpteenth time, sitting on the stool by the prep table again with the heels of her hands pressed to her closed eyes, as if that will somehow quell the dull ache in her head.

"You're ghostly," Belle insists, and then Ruby is there, too, pulling on her jacket after hanging Ashley's peacoat in its place.

"You look like crap on a cracker," Ruby informs bluntly. "You should go before the customers actually see you and think they're gonna catch ebola from the food."

Regina drops one hand to glare at her. "Thanks."

Ruby shrugs. "Just callin' it like I see it, boss." Her face softens a little then, and she urges, "But seriously, you should go home. No shame in a half day."

Regina sighs and lets the other hand fall into her lap. "I need to go shopping," she groans, and Belle scoffs, while Ruby perks up.

"Shopping?" she asks. "For what?"

"Robin's department faculty party. I need a dress. Everything I have is either too young, or too casual, or too the dress I wore on our first date, and I want to look good. I want to look classy and sophisticated, and not like I bake pies all day."

"And what exactly is wrong with baking pies all day?" Belle asks, turning from where she has resumed doing exactly that – measuring out pumpkin pie filling into a batch of mini crusts.

"Nothing, it just doesn't belong at a university holiday party," Regina shrugs.

"Go another day," Belle suggests with a shrug of her own, and Regina scowls.

"I don't want to go another day, I want to go today. I'm already out, and there's this dress I saw a few weeks ago in SoHo that I thought would be good, but I didn't have time to stop and try it on that day. Today, I do."

"Today, you're going to pass out on the train," Ruby counters, all bundled up now, scarlet red hat and scarf to match her red lips.

"I am not," Regina protests with a roll of her eyes. "I'll be fine. I'll sit for ten more minutes, and then I'll go, and I'll be fine."

"Or," Ruby says, drawing the word out far longer than necessary. "You tell me where you saw the dress, what it looked like, hand me a chunk of change from the safe, and I go get it for you and hand deliver it to your door. And you go home and sleep, for fuck's sake."

Regina blinks. That's… not a horrible idea. "You'd do that?" she asks, and Ruby smiles warmly.

"Of course. And I'll only charge you a batch of that cinnamon chocolate chip challah bread pudding as a delivery fee," she adds with a smirk.

Regina tells her that sounds perfectly reasonable, ignores Ruby's comment that she can wait to make the bread pudding until she's not carrying some zombie plague, and writes down all the necessary information.

Then she goes home, collapses into a heap on her bed and sleeps.

**.::.**

Robin's hand on her shoulder wakes her up, shaking her gently in the darkness of her room. She's slept half the day away again, she realizes with a groan.

"Hey," he urges softly, and she blinks sleepily, cranes her neck back to see him - she's on her belly, face smooshed against her pillow. She mutters something that's supposed to be _hi_ in return, but it comes out more of a rough scratch. "There's dinner if you're hungry. Thai food." His fingers stroke through her hair, curving behind her ear, then skimming down her neck. "We ordered you sweet and sour chicken; I wasn't sure if you were up for curry."

Regina grunts and rolls onto her back so she can see him properly, letting out a deep, waking sigh. "Sweet and sour is good," she murmurs. The bedroom door is open, his body silhouetted in the light that spills in, and she can hear voices from the other room, although they're not terribly loud. "Who's here?"

"Just Emma and Neal," he tells her, his voice still soft, still gentle, his fingers finding hers and weaving with them.

"Did Ruby come by?" she asks, wondering about the dress. If it was still at the store, if they'd had her size…

"She did, and she left a bag that I have been told I am under no circumstances to look in," he tells her. "Which, to be honest, has me both intrigued and a bit frightened, knowing Ruby."

Regina lets out a chuckle, wondering what sort of things he's imagined Ruby could have procured for her that he's not allowed to see. "It's just my dress. She offered to pick it up for me, so I could go home and sleep."

"Ah, I see. That's not so scary then." His thumb is tracing the back of her palm, round and round in a slow, steady circle. Regina's eyelids are falling again; she forces them open wide to keep from slipping back under. "Emma absconded to her room with it immediately."

"Can you send her in here with it?" Regina requests. "I want to try it on, and make sure I don't have to exchange it after work tomorrow."

"You're going in again?" he asks, with just enough casualness to not annoy her, but just enough concern to make it known he doesn't think it's the best idea.

"Only until noon," Regina sighs. "With Belle. I'll be fine."

"Alright." He seems mollified by her answer, leaning forward and kissing her brow. "I'll go get Emma."

He leaves, then, and Regina takes a moment to steel herself before turning the light on and wincing at the brightness. She's sitting up when Emma comes into the room, shopping bag in hand.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," the blonde greets, tossing the shopping bag at the bed from several feet away.

Regina scowls and stands, telling her roommate, "Shut the door. I want your opinion."

"Okay, bossypants," Emma mutters not-quite-under-her-breath, but she goes back to the door anyway and shuts it.

"I heard that," Regina grumbles as she begins to strip out of her clothes.

"Kinda meant for you to," Emma points out, moving back to the bed and plunking down on the edge, then dropping onto her back and staring at the ceiling.

"I feel so loved," Regina sighs mockingly, reaching for the bag once she's down to her underwear and pulling out the dress. It's royal blue, with half sleeves, an asymmetrical neckline, and a zipper that runs clean up from the bottom hem to mid-back where it opens to reveal a generous expanse of skin. Regina shimmies into it, tugs the zipper up and breathes a sigh of relief when it slides to the top and leaves the dress fitting snugly but not too tight. Ruby got the right size.

"Okay," Regina says, reaching back to fasten the ribbon that ties behind her neck just as Emma is lifting her head. The blonde's brows lift, and then she's pushing herself up off her back as Regina does a quick turn.

"Yowza," Emma remarks, and Regina snorts a little laugh

"What do you think?" she asks, although Emma's initial reply was fairly promising.

"I think if I was into the ladies, and we weren't dating those hotties in the other room, I'd be all over you, flu and all."

That gets her a full-on laugh from Regina, who plants her hands on her hips and declares, "Good. Because if I have my way of things, one of those hotties will be all over me by the end of Thursday night."

"Yeah, after he finishes beating all his colleagues off with a stick," Emma smirks, leaning back onto her hands as Regina twists her arms back to undo the zipper and peel out of the dress. "Y'know, you clean up pretty well, Mom. When you put some effort into it."

"Ah, now you sound just like my mother," Regina muses with caustic wistfulness. "A lovely compliment followed by a snide declaration of my failings."

"Oh, can it," Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm not snide, and I'm not your witch of a mother. I am, however, hungry. So put your damn clothes on before Neal eats all my pad thai."

And because she is suddenly, finally, for the first time in a week, actually starving, Regina does just that.


	11. Week Ten - Part One

_**Author's Note: **So, if you follow me on tumblr, you may have seen me say that Week Ten is loooong. Very long. Officially the longest chapter in this story. It is going to tip 20,000 words and that just seemed like... well... too much for a single chapter. So you're getting it in two pieces. Here is Week Ten, Monday through Wednesday. Thursday through the weekend will be forthcoming just as soon as I have them finished for ya._

* * *

The holidays are in full swing at Forbidden Fruit, fake snow sprayed into the corners of the bakery case and front window amongst paper snowflakes and snowmen, bells painted in red and green, blue and silver. A lengthy playlist of holiday songs have taken up residence in the sound system and the special of the day is a chocolate cream pie with crushed peppermint and a mint cookie crust. Pumpkin cookies have been replaced by ginger snaps, and there are thick, frosted sugar cookies shaped like snowmen nestled alongside the usual fare.

Ruby is particularly festive, her preference for red lending well to the season, and as if that wasn't enough, today she's sporting reindeer antlers that light up.

Regina, on the other hand, isn't quite feeling the holiday cheer. She's still recovering from her bout with the flu, still sluggish and sleepy by the time the lunch rush rolls around on Monday. At least she's not feverish, she tells herself. At least the baking sheets don't feel ten pounds heavier than they really are.

Still, she's yawning into her elbow, watching as the mixer paddle spins around and around, increasingly hypnotic.

"All I Want for Christmas Is You" is playing for what has to be the third or fourth time since six this morning, and Regina wonders how the hell that is possible when there are hundreds of songs that should be shuffling. She kills the mixer, moves to the sound system and hits the Next button, just as Ashley floats through the kitchen door, singing along for a beat or two even after the song cuts out.

Then she frowns, and says, "Hey, I like that one."

"I did too," Regina grumbles, one hand at her neck, kneading sore muscles there absently. Maybe she can get Robin to give her a back rub later… "The first three times."

Ashley snorts a laugh at Regina's comment, shrugging out of her coat and heading for the office as Michael Bublé's "Cold December Night" begins to play. Better, she thinks, and she leaves it there, heads back to her mixer.

A minute later, the blonde reappears, divested of her purse, coat and hat, and carrying Ruby's instead. "It's supposed to snow tonight," she says conversationally, and Regina sighs, mutters _Great_. That's just what she needs, a damp, slippery commute home to put a cap on what has already felt like an incredibly long Monday.

"Why are you so Grinchy today?" Ruby asks through the pass-through, her festive mood momentarily dimmed by Regina's own dark cloud.

Regina blows out a breath and closes her eyes, admitting, "I'm just tired. That flu kicked my ass."

When she opens her eyes again, Ashley is behind the counter greeting a customer, and Ruby is still frowning into the kitchen. "You need me to stay?" she offers. "I mean, I'm no Belle in the kitchen, but I take directions well-" Regina scoffs at that, can't help it, and Ruby insists, "I _do_. I can be an extra pair of hands if you need. Plus, there's these super cute pumps I have my eye on, and a little overtime would get 'em in my closet faster."

She smiles winningly, and Regina smirks, shakes her head. "Sorry to disappoint, but I can muddle through on my own. Your super cute pumps will have to wait." Ruby sighs dramatically as Regina adds, "But thank you for the offer. And for pulling double shifts last week. I appreciate it."

"Yeah, yeah," Ruby dismisses, but she's smiling, so Regina knows there are no hard feelings. She says her goodbyes, then disappears from view and Regina scrubs her hands over her face, exhaling heavily and getting back to work.

The snow Ashley has promised starts to fall around two, but Regina is entirely unaware of it until Robin steps into her kitchen twenty minutes later, his shoulders dusted with the melting flakes.

Even through her nagging exhaustion, she smiles at the sight of him, greets, "Hello, handsome," and carefully sets down the hot sheet of cookies she's just pulled from the oven.

He'd been smiling when he walked in, but that smile spreads into a grin now, one of those wide, dimply ones shining with mirth. The kind that still makes her immediately self-conscious. "What?" she asks him, her own smile tinged with nerves now.

"Seems it's snowing in here, too," he teases, taking the few steps to close the gap between them and swiping his thumb across her jaw. It comes away with a dusting of white powder and Regina groans. She'd been making chocolate peppermint crinkles - they are what is resting on the very pan she just removed from the oven, in fact - and the cookies are all rolled in powdered sugar. She has a vague recollection of scratching an itch on her face while she'd been rolling.

"It's sugar," she informs him, and he lifts his thumb to his lips and sucks the sweetness away with a soft, appreciative hum.

"Take care of those," he urges, nodding toward the cookies. "I want you for a moment."

One of Regina's eyebrows lifts slightly, suggestively. "Oh, do you?"

"Not like that, lovely," he chuckles, and then he seems to catch himself and adds, "At least, not right this second."

She smiles again, her nose scrunching. "What for, then?" she asks, reaching for her spatula and deftly moving cookie after cookie from silpat to cooling rack.

"Wait and see," Robin smirks, and Regina finds herself reminding him that she isn't exactly known for her patience. But he doesn't give, not until she's finished the last cookie and shrugged out of her apron.

She expects them to head back into her office, but he drags her outside with him instead, unzipping his coat and tugging it around the both of them. It doesn't fully close around Regina's front, but the inside still carries his body heat, and he's warm against her back. It's chilly, but by no means unbearably cold. Robin holds the jacket tight, covering her as best he can and Regina relaxes back into him, watching as fat flakes float down all around them, turning dingy brown when they meet the street, but staying fluffy and white around the footsteps being tracked over the sidewalk.

He rests his head against hers, his cheek still cold against the warmth of her temple, and sways them back and forth. For a few moments, the street is quiet. Peaceful. A blessed respite in her taxing day. Then, Robin turns his head and presses his chilly lips to Regina's cheekbone and murmurs, "I find the first snowfall quite romantic, don't you?"

She never has before, but as she stands there with him, content and bundled close, she finds herself saying, "I do now," and meaning it.

Robin chuckles softly and hugs her more tightly against him. They linger there for several long minutes, until those fluffy flakes begin to pick up speed and intensity, sticking in her hair, coating the sleeves of his jacket. Until the gap in his coat lets in a gust of wind that has her pressing backward for more heat, goosebumps rising along her bare collarbone.

"Come on," she urges softly. "Let's go warm up."

When they go back inside, the sound system has found its way back to "All I Want for Christmas Is You" again, but Regina finds she doesn't mind it quite as much as she did before. She pours them each a steaming mug of cider, and Robin follows her into the kitchen, keeping her company for the last hour of her workday.

They pick Henry up from school, and the snow has him walking within his head back and mouth open, tongue out in an attempt to taste the blooming winter. Regina can't help but laugh at him, weaving her fingers with Robin's and leaning into his side as they stroll slowly alongside her son.

When he announces he's hungry for something other than snowflakes, Regina pushes back the exhaustion still tugging at her and relents to the idea of burgers and fries. That she gets to partake with her two favorite men makes the decision considerably less difficult.

The snow continues to fall steadily, leaving the streets a winter wonderland as they head home, warm light from street lamps catching the flakes as they descend, the sidewalk sporting a thick white carpet where it hasn't been trodden grey and slick. Suddenly the fairy lights wrapped around the trees on her block go from prematurely festive to magical, the cold air from merely irksome to crisp and invigorating. The Christmas season arrives on a Monday evening, making Regina feel light and loved, and, yes, romantic.

By morning, the temperature has risen and everything is slushy and grey, the snow mostly melted.

**.::.**

Regina didn't go to college.

No, that's not true.

Regina went to one year of college. Vassar, and on an academic scholarship, no less. But then Henry happened, and Daniel died, and her mother was absolutely not raising a baby (Regina wouldn't have been willing to be away from him for long months at a time even if Cora hadn't made it explicitly clear that passing off the responsibility of this unexpected child was not an option), so Regina had "taken some time off." She'd always thought she'd go back, when Henry was older. Get a Bachelor's Degree, write term papers, suffer through required math classes and science labs. Now, though, she doesn't see it happening. Life happened, and she no longer has time for things like undergrad education - she struggled enough trying to balance work and motherhood with the smattering of business and cooking classes she's taken over the years.

So no, Regina didn't really go to college, but she's made peace with that. Her mother still likes to bring it up, now and then - her lack of formal education just another way in which she's fallen short of what was expected of her (of everyone in her generation, if she's being honest with herself) - but she's learned to silence Cora's voice. Mostly. She tries, anyway.

She's smart - intelligent. She knows that. But she's not well-read.

Sure, she reads, but the majority of her mental library comes from the children's section. If you have a question about something written by Lemony Snicket, or Roald Dahl, or if you would like to know all of _Charlotte's Web_ backward and forward (because she has read it to Henry no less than five times), she's your girl. At present, she's taking a veritable master class in all things related to the wizarding world - ask her anything, she probably knows. And if she doesn't, she will soon. She tries to carve out time for herself, tries to expand her literary horizons from time to time - or at least, catch the occasional bestseller - but she's not well-versed in the classics.

Something she is painfully aware of as she stands in her kitchen, quietly measuring ingredients for a gingerbread pound cake she's experimenting with, and listening as her lit-professor boyfriend discusses E.M. Forster with the walking library that is Belle French. She's never read _A Passage to India_ - and why would she have? When would she have had the time? - so she has no idea what the hell they're talking about, and it burns her.

She knows she is smart, but right now she feels stupid - not something she feels often, but she feels it today (feels it every time she thinks of Robin's faculty party this coming Thursday night, and that hot, twisting anxiety grips her guts), and it draws her mouth into a deep scowl, has her teeth biting together, hard.

_Snap out of it, Mills._

But she can't help wondering sometimes, times like this, what exactly it is Robin sees in her. What he's doing with her when he could be with someone like Belle, young and bright and able to carry on a twenty-five minute conversation that sounds like it belongs in some high-brow movie about an Ivy League university student learning some grand life lesson. Something adapted from a novel, no doubt. A novel she's never had time to read. Why, when he could have that (and she knows he could, because he is surrounded by smart young women, and look at him), does he spend his time with her, and her vast knowledge of the different types of flour, and how to prepare a proper ganache, and how to get gum out of a ten year old's hair (how he got it in there in the first place, that's a mystery even to her)?

She tells herself he's with her because he wants to be, because he sees something in her that he wants to see more of, but she listens as he speaks passionately - they're disagreeing about something, and she couldn't weigh in even if she wanted to because she has no reference point and no literary analysis skills and she -

Regina cuts herself off, stalks over to the sound system and flips it back on. She'd turned it off when they'd gotten slow, because if she has to hear "This Christmas" one more time, she might stab herself with a candy cane.

But now she wants the noise - it's not loud, but it's enough to muddle their voices, and she moves back to the mixer and drops in the butter and some of the sugar, then flips it on to add even more noise to the mix.

Then she stands there, and watches the paddle turn around, and around, and around, adding in the rest of the sugar slowly, letting it cream.

When the door swings open, she glances up on reflex - it's Robin, and he goes from looking mildly interested to incredibly concerned almost instantly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and Regina shakes her head.

"Nothing's wrong."

"That's not a nothing face," he tells her, peeking into the mixer and then sliding the knob to turn it off. Great. He wants to talk.

Regina is still scowling, she realizes, and so she schools her face into something more pleasant - smiles, and tilts her head slightly, and tells him, "But this is."

Robin is not impressed.

"That's put on," he notes, and his hands settle on her hips, then slide around until he can link his fingers at her lower back. "What's wrong, Regina?"

"You're going to get flour on your shirt," she points out, but all Robin does is lift his brows expectantly. He's not going to let her skirt the question, she realizes, so she lets the fake smile fade away and takes a deep breath, shakes her head. "It's no-"

"Do not say 'nothing,'" Robin interrupts, growing frustrated for a moment, his grip tightening around her waist and then relaxing again. "If you're upset over something, I want to know. I consider it my sworn duty to make you smile whenever possible, you know."

It works, her lips tip up ever so slightly for a fraction of a moment before dipping back down.

This is stupid. She shouldn't say anything - she wishes he'd just stayed out there with Belle for a while longer, so she could've gotten over this feeling on her own and he'd never be the wiser. It's what she's done with every inconvenient swell of insecurity or jealousy before now, and it's been working just fine for her.

"It's silly," she sighs, shaking her head, and confessing, "I just... Sometimes, I feel like you're out of my league."

His brows shoot up, a surprised frown on his face before he questions, "Me? Out of _your_ league? Are you serious?"

And now she's just embarrassed. She pushes at his hands, tries to step back, mutters, "Forget it," but he won't let her go.

"No, Regina, what is this about? What's going on?"

"I'm not... intellectual. I'm not-" She huffs out a breath. "You can sit there and spend half an hour pontificating on Forster, and I can do a bang-up job of describing Narnia to you, but when it comes to real, actual literature, I might as well-"

He silences her with a kiss, hands cupping her jaw now, then skimming back to cradle her neck. "Not another word of that." His voice is soft, and he stays close - creates enough space to look her in the eyes, but no more. "You're brilliant."

"Doesn't always feel that way," she mutters, glancing away.

"It does to me," he assures, his fingertips dragging against her skin lightly.

Regina frowns, her gaze listing sideways, toward the passthrough, toward where Belle is now cheerfully helping customers. "You two have a lot in common."

He swallows, then asks with a pained expression, "Are you worried about me and Belle?"

It takes no effort, and is no lie, when Regina shakes her head and assures, "No," because she trusts him completely, and Belle, too. "It's not like that, I just…"

"You what?" he coaxes when Regina trails off, words stuck in her throat, on her tongue. She feels like an idiot now, even more than she did when she was listening to them talk. She should never have brought this up. "You do know the only reason I'm here right now instead of sitting at home is you. Right? Not her, not your admittedly incredible coffee. Not even that chocolate peppermint pie, which, by the way, is one of your better creations. Just you." Robin's lips press to her cheek, "I come here to be closer to you," her temple, "to spend more time with you when you've time to spare," her brow, "and to spy on you a bit when you don't. And you're right, Belle and I have a lot in common, and she's good company. But there's nothing more than friendship between us. I would never, and she wouldn't either."

She nods, insists, "I know that. I trust you, Robin, it's not that. She just… seems… more your type. You can talk to her about things I can't ever talk to you about, and... I..." Robin frowns at that, and she can tell that her confession has genuinely upset him, which makes her feel even worse. "Never mind," she mutters, shaking her head, and trying to pull away again. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Robin will have none of it, shaking his head at her and taking a deep breath before speaking.

"Regina… lovely… This isn't exactly how I'd planned on saying this, but I'm afraid I've let it go too long hoping for the 'right' moment, and I worry I've left you with doubts, or… " He sighs softly, continues, "So I need you to hear what I'm about to say and believe me." Her heart starts to knock hard in her chest, to pound in her ears. Oh. _Oh_. He's going to say it. _It._ The word they've danced around for weeks now, the one she feels, deeply, but hasn't spoken yet. It's about to come out of his mouth, she knows it. Can feel it in the air between them. And then he does, he says it, looks her right in the eyes, and tells her: "I love you. Only you."

Regina swallows hard and feels tears prick at the back of her eyes. Oh God, no, she will not cry over an _I love you_. She won't. Instead, she presses her lips together, and gives the slightest nod. She should say it back, she thinks, but she's not sure she can trust her voice right now, and anyway, he's still talking. "And I don't care if Belle has read more books than you or can talk about Moliere and Chaucer until she runs out of air. She's not you, Regina. And I am so in love with every bit of you."

He shakes his head slightly, and smiles softly at her. "Your beautiful smile, and how your nose scrunches up when you're teasing or confused, or…" Regina blinks self-consciously, makes a face, and his smile warms. "Yes, just like that," he murmurs. "Those lovely, dark eyes, and the way you show everything in them, even when perhaps you'd rather not. I love that you're feisty, and I love that bit of temper that keeps me on my toes. I love your mind, and what you do with it; I love walking into this place in the morning and discovering what wonderful thing your brain has concocted next. And I love the way you love our children, the way you scold Roland for not using his words - you don't let him get by with anything, and I do, I know I do. But I love that you love him enough not to do the same. I even love your cold toes in the middle of the night, that somehow always find their way under the ends of my pajama bottoms, and it should be annoying, because they're like little ice cubes, those cold toes, but it's not. Because it's you."

His thumbs skim along the edge of her jaw, back and forth, and she shivers violently after a moment but he ignores it. Keeps going. "I've been mad for you since the day I first laid eyes on you, Regina; I've not had room for thoughts of anyone else. You take my breath away. Always." His hands slide forward, until he is cupping her cheeks in his palms, tipping her chin up just slightly to ensure she's looking him right in the eye when he says, "I'd pass up a hundred Belles for one you, my love. Never, ever think you're not enough for me, or that I think I could do better. You're all I want. More than I deserve, not the other way around."

She sniffles, hitches in a breath, because not crying at his confession of love was one thing, but keeping a dry eye at that whole speech was another entirely, and she's failed miserably, eyes wet. She blinks, and a tear slips free, caught immediately by a gentle brush of his thumb.

"I love you, too," she manages, and then she's sinking into him, his hand moving to her back, her forehead finding his shoulder, and she breathes, and clutches at his sweater gently, and confesses, "I just never thought I'd have this. Someone for me, who fit so easily into my life, and loves my son, and me, and... I just... wish I..." She can't find a way to put it into words without sounding absolutely foolish - and she already feels that way. "I wish I'd finished college," she concludes lamely. When his forehead crinkles in confusion, she looks down at his collarbone and mutters, "I should have more than a high school diploma."

"Why?" he asks her, his voice firm, almost sharp, and Regina's lips purse together slightly before she tells him what she thinks should be obvious - what has been made clear to her for her entire breathing existence.

"Because intelligent, successful people finish college, Robin."

"Do you think I find you stupid?" he asks, nudging her back so he can see her face again. His own wears a deep frown. "That I care whether or not you have letters after your name? That that means anything to me?"

Regina shakes her head no, even though yes, sometimes, she worries he thinks she's not very smart, despite the fact that he has never, not once, given her reason to. "No, I just wish I could talk to you about the things you're passionate about."

"You do," he insists, reminding her, "Our boys, pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, I'm still quite passionate about those..." It's meant to be teasing, but it proves her point exactly, and Regina rolls her eyes and tries to pull back, but he won't let her. "Regina, stop. We've never lacked for conversation, and I've never once found you boring, or dull, or dumb. We've talked of books, and art, and movies, and... science, and none of it means a damn, none of it matters. I'm passionate about _you_. About us. I don't give a damn how much schooling you've had. What can I do to make you believe that?"

"I do, I'm just... out of sorts today." Her voice trembles as she admits, "And I'm still so tired." She's been trying to power through, trying not to feel the exhaustion the tail end of her flu has left her with, but it's there, underneath everything. No matter how hard she tries to ignore it.

"Well then, come here," he urges, pulling her back against him, cradling her head on his shoulder and wrapping his arms snugly around her. Regina melts into the embrace, holds tightly, and breathes him in as he begins to rock gently back and forth. She doesn't know what is causing this, this wellspring of self-loathing, of never-enough. She thought she'd outgrown these thoughts when she'd gotten herself free from her mother's clutches all those years ago, but here they are again, and she feels them in her throat. A tight, choking pain that has her swallowing, and swallowing, and her shoulders shake once before she even realizes she's crying. He shushes her softly, presses a kiss into her hair. Several minutes stretch between them before he asks quietly, "How long have you felt this way? Not the tiredness – everything else." Regina is still leaking tears, so she says nothing, just jerks her shoulders in something resembling a shrug and shakes her head once. "For a while?" he asks, and she sniffles. "I wish you'd said something."

She answers that one, standing straight again and shaking her head, wiping away the tears on her cheeks. "It was stupid. I knew it was stupid."

He's drawn her hands away from her face now, replaced them with his own, cupping her jaw, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as he says, "Needless or not, it's how you were feeling." It doesn't escape her notice that he has changed her wording, and she wonders now if he's going to be overly conscious of using the word "stupid" in front of her. If she's put something between them that is awkward and troublesome, and she regrets saying anything, even if she feels better after his reassurances. She shouldn't have needed them in the first place. "If you'd told me when you first felt this way, I could have told you then how little any of that matters to me; how brilliant you are to me. They're just books and diplomas, Regina. Just pieces of paper and mounds of debt. They're not what really matters."

She lets his words soak into her, tries to find comfort in his honesty, but there's one more traitorous bit of anxiety she has to confess. She drops her gaze down between them, drops her voice low when she says softly, "What if I have nothing to say on Thursday? What if I'm in that room full of professors, and I have nothing to talk about?"

"Regina," he says her name flatly, then tips her chin back up with his fingers. "I promise you, my coworkers are not as smart as you think they are."

He smiles at her, wide and playful, and something about it makes her laugh wetly. "Oh, you work with a bunch of idiots, then?"

"Morons, the lot of them," he assures her, and she knows damn well he's lying, but somehow it works this time. Has her laughing softly in spite of herself. When she does, he looks satisfied, takes a deep breath and lets it out. "God, I love making you laugh, you know that? You're so beautiful."

She does know that - the first part anyway, so she nods, and smiles, presses her lips together, and then to his. An impromptu kiss that she just can't resist. He chases her as she drops back to her heels, steals another from her mouth, and then nods toward the mixer she's all but forgotten.

"Now," he says, and she knows the topic has changed, shifted, and is incredibly relieved to be out of the hot seat. "What's this going to be?"

She turns in his arms (he doesn't release her, just moves behind her and peers over her shoulder), and pulls the knob to turn the mixer back on, telling him, "Something new. Gingerbread pound cake." Robin groans and buries his face in her neck, his murmured, _Genius_ tickling her skin. She smirks, a zing of satisfaction chasing his reaction, even though she thinks he may be exaggerating for her bruised ego. "I'm thinking maybe a coffee glaze, or citrus..." she muses. "Might do half and half, see what tastes better."

"Please tell me I can taste test," Robin says to her, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck softly.

"Come home with me tonight, and you can taste test all sort of things." It's suggestive, flirty, not at all the way she's been feeling for the last half hour or so, but she feels it coming back to her. Feels herself settling.

When he chuckles into her neck and says something about that sounding like a fine trade to him, she thinks he's not the only one of them who likes to make their lover laugh.

"Hey," she murmurs, turning her head toward him. His head tips up, eyes locking on her questioningly. "I love you."

Because she can now.

Robin's eyes warm, his smile spreads, he bites his lip. Then, "I love you, too."

"Good," she nods, and then she pushes her hips against his, a firm nudge. "Now get out and let me work."

Robin leaves her as ordered, laughing.

**.::.**

Hours later, when they've decided that the coffee glaze is the better of the two, and Henry has spent half an hour teaching Robin how to play another of his video games, and everyone has been fed and read to and tucked into bed, Robin and Regina find themselves in Regina's room, very naked and very enthusiastic about it.

She's on top of him, her fingers in his hair as her hips grind against his, rubbing herself up and down on his erection, dragging her clit along the hard length of him. She's wet, so wet, slides slickly against him. Robin groans quietly and pushes her up slightly, until he can lift his head and get access to a breast, sucking at the nipple, grazing it with his teeth, sucking again. HIs hand is on the other, grasping at her nipple, tugging and twisting, and oh god, he knows what this does to her, when he teases both her nipples at once and rubs against her clit at the same time, he knows, he knows it drives her absolutely insane.

And tonight is no different. She is gripping the headboard now, rutting back against him with a whine of pleasure, sensation looping and looping in her belly. Her heart is pounding, pounding, hard and fast, her breath shallow, she's almost dizzy with it. She's going to come, soon, like this, but she doesn't want to come like this, no, she wants him inside her, wants to squeeze around him, wants him to keep fucking into her while she tips over the edge, wants it so bad. She shifts, reaches a hand down between them (her fingers are shaking, why are your fingers shaking?), grasps his shaft and angles it just right so she can sink down over him on her next grind.

He moans loudly (they should be quiet, but Henry is two whole rooms away and out like a light, and Emma's a big girl, she can handle the sound of Regina getting fucked for once instead of the other way around), and Regina moves her hand back to the headboard, pushing back harder against him. She rides him faster, deeper, her heart is racing, her breaths coming faster and faster, she's lightheaded, dizzy with pleasure, dizzy with… just dizzy, she realizes. Her body feels alive and amazing, but also somehow weak and shaky, and suddenly she's coughing shallowly, Robin hissing as her muscles grip tightly around him with each little spasm of her lungs.

She stills, his hands on her hips, her breathing is fast, her heart is racing. Regina shuts her eyes for a second, tries to draw a slower, deeper breath. Another, one more.

"You alright?" he asks, fingers lifting, threading through her hair, then down over her neck, his thumb landing against her pulse. His voice is tinged with concern when he says, "Your heart is racing."

She nods, says breathily, "Dizzy," and "Can't catch my breath," and coughs lightly again.

"Alright," he soothes, lifting her off of him, and urging her to the mattress at his side. She whines softly at the loss of contact - she's dizzy, yes, and breathless, yes, but she's still aroused, still aching for him, still wants to come. "I think we may have overtaxed your sickly lungs," he murmurs sympathetically, one hand coming to rest between her breasts.

"Yeah," she breathes, still trying to steady her breathing, to slow her galloping heart. "That's not fair," she complains. "I feel better."

"You've still been a bit run down," he reasons, shifting closer, his warm, damp cock against her hip, still mostly hard for her.

"I still want to finish."

He'd been about to press a kiss to her cheek, but he nods first, kisses, murmurs, "Take a moment," then kisses gently behind her ear. "And then I'll do all the work, alright?" He nips lightly at her jaw, makes her shiver. "You can just lie there and enjoy yourself."

"Mm," she hums - his tongue is on throat now, trailing up and down her slowly steadying pulse, making goosebumps flare across delicate skin. "That sounds good."

When she coughs lightly again, he frowns, lifts his head and asks, "Water?"

Regina shakes her head no, but requests, "Cough drop. In the nightstand."

He's between her and the drawer, so he rolls and pulls it open, retrieving a bag of Ricolas and tossing it her way blindly. It lands on her ribs. Graceful, she thinks with a roll of her eyes, fishing a lozenge out of the packaging and popping it into her mouth. Sucking and sucking at it, trying to encourage it to melt and soothe the tickle of her dry throat (water would have been better, yes, but it's all the way in the other room, and this'll do).

Robin still has his back to her, distracted by something in the drawer, and she makes a questioning noise, an annoyed hum. When he turns back to her, object in hand and a devious smirk on his face, Regina's cheeks flush hot, her eyes widening.

He's holding her vibrator.

"Put that back," she manages, speech a bit muffled before she shifts the lozenge from the top of her tongue to her cheek.

He waggles his brows at her, flops back to the mattress and fiddles with it, pressing the buttons, a soft buzz sounding in the room as its vibrations hum to life. "Is this how you pass the time on the nights I'm not with you, my love?"

"No," she grouses, huffing in annoyance and reaching for it, yanking it from his hand and turning it off. "I'm with you plenty. I don't really… have use for this anymore."

Robin's brows lift curiously, a look in his eyes that makes her suddenly wary. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. Really," she tells him, her thumb rubbing absently along the soft silicone tip, other hand gripping the smooth plastic at the base. "Why would I need this when I can have you?"

"You could have both," he reasons with a shrug. He reaches for the toy again, easing it gently from her fingers. She lets him, frowning softly as he turns it over in his hands, inspecting it, his thumb tracing the slight curve of the shaft.

"Both."

"Yes, both," he repeats, shuffling closer to her and propping his elbow on the pillow next to her head. He starts up the vibrations again, traces the end lightly along the outer curve of her breast. It tickles, has her skin prickling with goosebumps, her nipple tightening. Robin ducks his head in and kisses behind her ear again, his voice low when he murmurs, "I could be inside you, maybe from behind, the way you like. You could press this to your clit…"

Oh… she hadn't thought of that.

Regina flushes, her breathing deepening (it had finally begun to slow) as Robin draws the buzzing tip across the swell of her breast to her nipple, rubbing it against the sensitive nub. She sucks in a breath at the tickling, buzzing sensation - not unpleasant in the least.

"Would you like that?" he asks her, his voice a low rumble, and she finds herself nodding, squirming under his attention. The vibrator skims down, away from her breast, down the center of her belly, toward her navel. It doesn't take much to figure out where he's headed, and Regina parts her legs willingly, her shyness and discomfort suddenly gone. One knee bends and lifts, settling against his hip, and he hums appreciatively before letting the tip of the thing slide down along her clit.

Regina's head tips back at the familiar pleasure of the vibrations, although he's still on the lowest setting, a steady, dull buzzing. It's nice, made even nicer by the knowledge that he's the one wielding her pleasure, but it could be better…

Robin rubs it against her in gentle circles, and Regina licks her lips, reaches down and worms her thumb beneath his grip, finding the buttons that controls the vibrations and pressing a few times. She finds the one she likes best - a continuous wave that crests and abates, crests and abates - and then punches up the intensity a notch.

Her breath catches, a soft moan breaking from her lips. That's more like it…

"Is that what you like?" Robin asks her curiously, his voice thick with arousal. Regina nods and flits her eyes to him, finds him watching her intently, his lips parted slightly, his gaze hot. Her lashes flutter, her hips starting to rock into the delicious buzzing, and she feels him press the end harder against her. A sound spills out of her, open-mouthed and pleasured, and Robin groans, drops his brow to her temple, then shifts his mouth to her jaw and trails his tongue from ear to chin. Regina shivers and moans softly, fisting the bedding as his teeth nip at her.

Her pleasure rises steadily, coaxed higher and higher by the rolling vibrations on her clit, and soon she's trembling, her thighs feeling hot and liquid, she's going to come, she's getting close, and this isn't what she wanted, she wanted him…

"Robin," she moans softly, turning her head and nearly bumping her nose into his. He's right there, waiting for her, his mouth covering hers and kissing her fiercely, a messy, wet sort of kiss, full of desperate arousal.

"You're so sexy," he murmurs against her mouth, kissing her again. "Could watch you forever…"

But she shakes her head, insists, "Inside; I want you inside me."

He nods, letting the vibrator shift away from her, the lack of vibration almost a startling change. She can feel the echo of it, a sort of tingling left behind in its wake. "Can I watch you sometime?" he asks in a heated whisper. "Start to finish - will you get yourself off for me with this?"

Regina _mmhmm_s and nods - she'd agree to pretty much anything right now, she wants him so badly (and he always makes her feel so sexy, the way he looks at her, the way he responds to her. If he wants to watch her get off, well, why not? He loves her, she trusts him…). Robin's hand moves to her hip, pushes her gently away from him.

"Turn on your side, lovely," he urges, and Regina moans.

Oh, God, he wants to do it like that. The way that had her biting his pillows and shaking and **coming**. At least it'll be over quickly, she thinks, and then realizes that's probably why he's doing this - speeding her along without making her do much of any work at all. Getting her off without taxing her still-healing body.

They situate themselves, him spooning behind her, her knee up and bent. He pushes the vibrator (still buzzing away merrily) into her hand, murmurs for her to use it on herself once he's inside, and arousal spikes hot in her belly again. And then he's pushing into her, her breath shuddering out as he slides in and then out and back in again firmly.

"Go slow again," she breathes, because she's not sure how well she could handle fast tonight, and because they'd be giving Emma a hell of a show if he railed on her good and proper especially while she is - oh, god - pressing the vibrator against her clit again and - oh, this won't take long at all.

Robin is pistoning in and out of her lazily, moaning softly as he does, she thinks he says something about her being so wet, something about how he loves her, but Regina is already starting to spiral. The steady, rhythmic pleasure inside her mixes with the firm, buzzing vibration against her clit and she whimpers softly and comes with a choking moan, her head snapping back as she presses the vibrator harder against her clit.

"Already?" he grunts, and she nods, she was so close to begin with, so close, and then he, and the, oh, oh… Robin's hand is steady on her hip, holding her still as he thrusts and thrusts inside her, her orgasm spinning out, spreading, rocking through her in wave after endless wave.

"You want me to keep going?" he manages, voice tight and breathless, and Regina nods, and nods and lets loose another blissful moan. Her body seizes with pleasure again, her free hand fisting at the pillow, her face turning into it, moaning and moaning again. And then she coughs lightly, and Robin pushes gently at her wrist, easing the vibrator away from her. He's still hard inside of her, but he stills, pulls out, and coaxes her onto her back.

Regina pants lightly, fumbling to turn off the vibrator as Robin moves on top of her. He waits until she's settled back into the pillows to slip inside of her again, assuring, "I'll be quick," and then beginning to thrust.

"I don't mind," she breathes, and she doesn't, this isn't taxing, letting him take her like this, her arms winding around his neck, his face pressing into her collar with a moan. "Do whatever you need."

"Harder?" he groans, and she nods, repeats _whatever you need_, and Robin starts to fuck into her hard, deep. Quick, heavy strokes that make the bedframe rattle, make her gasp and moan and spread her knees wider, because he is banging against her still-so-sensitive clit with every sharp thrust. He finishes quickly, with a deep, growling grunt, and his fingers grasping at her shoulders, then sags on top of her for a moment, a whispered "love you," on his lips.

She murmurs that she loves him, too, then sighs with satisfaction as he pulls out of her and flops down to the bed beside her. He grimaces immediately, twisting, reaching beneath his side and pulling her vibrator out from underneath him. Regina laughs softly, and holds her hand out for it, but Robin doesn't relinquish it right away.

Instead, he announces, "This is coming home with me."

"With you?" she questions, brows lifting.

"Mmhmm," he murmurs, and then he reaches across her and sets it on the nightstand, pulling Regina close and pressing a kiss to her mouth. "For later. When your lungs are feeling better and there's nobody around to be disturbed by how loud I make you scream."

She can't help the laugh that bubbles up out of her, scoffing and doubtful. "You're awfully confident."

"I am," he confirms. "Plus, you did agree to let me watch you, and I feel that would probably be better done at my place than yours, don't you?"

"Mm," she agrees. "True."

"So," he nods resolutely, cuddling her against him until he's on his back, her head on his shoulder. "I'm taking it home."

"It seems you are," she concedes, wriggling a little until she can reach down and draw the covers up over them. When they're cocooned beneath them, warm and sleepy, she sighs and murmurs, "This has been a good day. Thank you."

She feels his smile against her forehead, his kiss there a moment later, and then his fingers are weaving with hers on his chest.

Regina falls asleep wearing a smile, and not a stitch more.

**.::.**

Her good mood lasts clear through until Wednesday night, when her cell phone rings at half past seven and her mother's name appears on the screen of her iPhone.

She answers with a cheerful "Hello, mother," doesn't even bother to be guarded about her good spirits. And why should she, anyway? For once, she's not sure there's anything in her life for her mother to pick apart - aside from the usual, of course.

"Hello, Regina," Cora returns, with her usual calm collectedness. "I'm sorry I missed your call on Thanksgiving, dear."

Almost two weeks ago now, Regina notes silently with a roll of her eyes. She'd called and left a message on the home phone voice mail, and her father had called her back the very next day, but her mother had been out. Had been working, if she recalls, and it's taken her a full two weeks, but it seems she's finally returning the call.

"It's alright," Regina dismisses. In all honesty, she doesn't mind the distance between them - emotional or otherwise. She's long ago determined her life is easier this way. Steadier. "I'm sure you were busy."

"Yes, quite," Cora responds, absently enough that Regina gets the vague inclination that this is more than a social call. An inclination that only sharpens when she continues, "Your father says you're seeing someone."

Ah, there it is. Cora Mills never wastes time, not when she has something on her mind anyway, and this is clearly the topic of the day. Despite everything that's happened between her and Robin in the last twenty-four hours, Regina feels a tiny spark of anxiety in her gut that this is the topic her mother has called to broach. She was wrong, she thinks. Her mother _does_ have something to pick apart.

So she's cautious when she answers. "I am."

"Is it serious?" Cora asks with what sounds like genuine curiosity, but she knows her mother, knows her father, knows that Cora does, too. She wouldn't know about Robin unless there was something there worth knowing. Regina's father has known about their relationship for weeks now, but she'd asked him not to mention anything to her mother, not yet, not so early on, not until she knew whether it was going to become something serious. And now it has, and like clockwork, like magic, mother is on the phone.

"I think so," she tells her evenly, and then immediately regrets the words.

It doesn't surprise her in the slightest to hear Cora question, "You _think_ so?"

She should've been more firm, more certain in her words. Should not be giving her mother a single opening to criticize. So she corrects, confidently, "Yes, it's serious."

"You think," Cora repeats.

"I know," Regina corrects. "I know so."

"Are you certain, dear? Because a moment ago, you said-"

"It was an expression, mother," she sighs, padding away from the living room where Henry is snuggled under an afghan on the papasan chair, twenty minutes into his thirty minutes of required reading for school. She doesn't want to distract him, and frankly she's not sure she wants him to listen in on what is sure to be a game of twenty questions about whether or not Robin is a suitable match.

Emma is in the kitchen washing dishes, and she glances up when Regina walks in, but turns away almost immediately – which makes Regina wonder just how annoyed she must already look.

"It's not really, dear, but if you insist."

Regina's nostrils flare with a surge of indignance. _If you insist,_ she grumbles silently. Honestly.

When she doesn't answer, Cora continues: "Where did you meet?"

"We met at work, actually," Regina tells her, proud of herself when she manages to sound pleasant.

"Yours?" Cora asks her doubtfully – and that saps the last of Regina's pleasantness.

"Yes, mine," she mutters testily.

"He works for you?" By her mother's tone alone, she can imagine what she must be thinking. That Regina has somehow attached herself to some vagrant artist type that works the counter, or some Mexican dishwasher she must have hired to work the kitchen with her. Oh, how wrong she is.

"No, mother, he doesn't work for me," Regina explains, exasperated already. "He was a customer."

"Hmm," is all Cora has to say to that. "What does he do, then?"

She'd wondered how long it would take her mother to get to that question – was surprised she hadn't led with it, honestly, considering her mother's opinions on status and what makes someone worthy of attention or respect.

"He's a professor."

"Go on…"

Regina blinks. She'd hoped that would have been enough to satisfy Cora - she'd always had a healthy respect for academia, even if she hadn't deemed it the most worthy of professions. Not enough persuasion, not enough influence – but education was important, was what separated the wealthy from the destitute as far as her mother was concerned, so she'd figured Robin's career choice would be welcome news. Apparently, she'd been wrong - it comes with conditions.

"Um, he, uh, teaches literary studies," Regina clarifies, imagining that's what her mother wants - it's not enough that he teaches, she'll care _what_ he's chosen to study. Regina leaves out the fairy tales - her mother would find them frivolous, she thinks.

"Regina, dear, don't stutter," Cora chides, and Regina actually feels her cheeks heat, dropping her gaze to the countertop and digging at a nick in the edge with her fingernail. She feels suddenly young, childish, like her mother is about to reach through the phone and straighten her shoulders, tell her to stop slouching, to leave that nick alone, to stop sucking her bottom lip in absently. She's taking a moment to remind herself that she is grown, and no longer under her mother's thumb, and that she wasn't stuttering anyway, when Cora says, "I suppose he's at one of those CUNY schools, then?" As if it would be distasteful – teaching at a public school.

"No, he teaches at the New School - full faculty, not an adjunct." Suddenly Regina has the urge to defend, to lay out all of Robin's accomplishments on a silver platter, displayed for approval or rejection. "He has a PhD from Cornell, he's a published author - all by his mid-thirties. He's very accomplished."

"Well, that's something at least," Cora says, and she actually sounds pleased. It has a small smile tugging at Regina's lips – he's passed muster, at least initially. "It's not law or science, but I'm sure his parents are still very proud."

Regina feels the words like a steel-tipped dart straight to the heart of her, her smile falling away, lips parting slightly. She can count on one hand the number of times her mother has told her she's proud of her, ever, in her life, and here Cora is on day one of even so much as knowing of Robin's existence, envying his parents for their successful child.

Regina swallows, and mutters softly, "Yes, I'm sure they are." Wants to say _I wonder what that's like_ and tinge it with bitterness, but it would only get her scolded for being childish. And she is not a child.

"You'd better hold tight to him, sweetheart," Cora advises. "I can't imagine you meet many accomplished men in your line of work."

"I run a bakery, not a brothel, mother," Regina bites quietly – Emma has finished with the dishes and turned the water off (she's still hovering in the kitchen, though, cleaning out old take-out containers and spoiled milk from the fridge), so there's less to block her voice from Henry's ears. "I serve plenty of accomplished people."

"Of course, dear," Cora mollifies before pointing out, "But you've been single your whole adult life," and Regina grits her teeth.

"I have not been single my entire adult life, mother." Her words are clipped, tight. "I dated a cop for a while."

She'd never told her parents about Graham - there'd been nothing really to tell - but the insinuation that she's been some sort of sexless, date-less pariah grates at her.

"A cop?" Cora mutters derisively. "Oh honestly, Regina, you're so much better than common law enforcement. You've squandered so much of your potential, sweetheart. Thank goodness you've finally found yourself someone suitable."

Regina presses her lips together, hard. She cannot count the number of times her mother has told her she's squandered her potential. She might as well have it tattooed across her forehead at this point: Regina Mills, Potential Squandered. Robin's parents must be so proud, and she has wasted all her goddamn potential.

That nick in the countertop is scraping the edge of her nail jagged.

"I wonder what first caught his interest," Cora muses with a sort of casual curiosity that Regina can read right through, or thinks she can anyway. What her mother means to say is _I wonder what he saw in you_ and for Regina, it becomes, _I wonder what he sees in you_ and her belly starts to twist and burn with the same shameful insecurity Robin had relieved her of just yesterday.

"He, um–" She frowns, tells herself not to stutter. "He said I was magic in the kitchen."

She still remembers that rainy day back in October, when she'd brought him his order and he'd smiled at her with those deep dimples and told her that she was more than just a baker, that she must be magic. Still remembers how the compliment had made her flush with pleasure.

It doesn't carry the same weight with Cora, though. She just lets out a scoff she would call unladylike if it came from Regina, and says, "Well, I do hope you find plenty to talk about other than your ability to bake a decent blueberry muffin. Anyone can do that. There's more to life, you know, Regina."

Anger washes over Regina in a wave; she feels the flush of it flare over her cheeks, down her neck to her collar. Her mother always does this, she thinks. Always finds some way to make it seem like what Regina does for a living is common and worthless, and suddenly she sees with startling clarity exactly where her dark mood yesterday had come from and it is here, right here. Her mother. Cora. And her casual insistence that there is nothing Regina has done that couldn't be done by some common person, someone beneath her, someone who has squandered every bit of potential.

"We have plenty to talk about," Regina mutters, her voice blank. Emma looks up from where she's been leaning against the counter nearby, perusing her phone, and her mouth draws into a concerned frown, a crease forming between her brows. She looks Regina up and down once, and the brunette realizes she's holding herself rigid, tells herself to relax. Emma moves to the fridge and pulls down a bottle of wine resting on top, and Regina feels a welcome flood of relief. God bless Emma Swan, she thinks. Regina's voice has more color when she continues, "Movies, and music, and our sons-"

"He has a son?"

Shit.

"Yes, he was married before," because that will matter to Cora. That they didn't bond over their unexpected children - even if both Henry and Roland had been surprises.

"Really. Who left who?" Cora asks, tactlessly, but unsurprisingly. She isn't sure what the correct answer is here - that Robin left and walked out on his family, or that she's dating a man so weak his own wife walked away from him. She's sure her mother will see it one way or the other, not for the complex situation that it actually was.

"Robin's marriage is really none of your business, mother," Regina snips. Cora repeats _Robin_ like she's only heard the name for the first time, and Regina realizes that she _has_. That it has taken her this long to even ask the name of the person her daughter is seeing – that she _didn't_ ask at all. Because why bother with something as unimportant as names when you could be discussing careers and disparaging city schools and making your daughter feel like something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Regina has just about had it.

"I was just asking, dear-"

"No, you weren't. You were grilling, you've been grilling, and quite frankly, I do not appreciate it." The words come out rushed, hissed, sharp as tacks even if they're quiet enough that Henry can't hear her. Emma is pushing a glass of red wine into her hand - no, a mug of it, the ivory Anthropologie mug with the R on the side, freshly washed and filled to the brim with Cabernet. Regina's fingers shake as she grips it. "I'm with someone who appreciates me, who doesn't look down on me the way that you-"

"Oh, honestly, Regina-"

"_No_," Regina tells her forcefully. "How dare you?" she whispers hotly. "You call me and play 20 Questions about _my_ life, and the man that _I_ love, and you assume the worst at every step of the way. Like I have somehow _squandered so much of my precious potential_ that I couldn't possibly end up with someone you might approve of, someone bright and successful, who wants nothing more than my happiness, and who cannot wait to trot me out and introduce me to his colleagues at his faculty holiday party tomorrow because he is _proud_ of me, mother, something that you–"

"Are you quite finished, dear?" Cora interrupts, and Regina sets her mug down on the countertop with a sharp crack of ceramic against the hard surface, wine sloshing over the edge and coating her fingers.

Henry looks up at that, and Regina kicks herself, relieved when Emma strides quickly toward him, with an overly bright, "Hey, kid, how's that reading going?" to distract him.

She turns away, faces the cabinets now instead of the open space of the kitchen and takes a deep breath that she hopes will be soothing, but does nothing to quell her ire. The moment of silence that comes from her pure, blinding anger must seem like an answer in the affirmative to Cora, because she praises tightly, "Good. Honestly, dear, I thought you'd outgrown these tantrums. I do hope this isn't how you plan to act in front of these colleagues you mentioned; I can't imagine he'd be proud of you then." Regina shuts her eyes and sees red, feels hot, angry tears prick at the back of her eyes. "Do try not to embarrass yourself with these people, dear. I know they're not your usual company, but I've seen you charm a room of dignitaries before, back when you were young and still trying. I'm sure you can manage a few college professors."

Regina is done.

Done.

One-hundred percent finished with this conversation.

So finished, in fact, that all she can manage to say is a quiet, darkly angry, "Goodnight, mother."

"Goodnight?" Cora questions.

"Yes. I'm hanging up now."

"Well, that's awfully childish, dear. Don't I at least get to say hello to my grandson?"

"No. Goodnight."

Regina ends the call without another word, and drops her phone to the countertop with a clatter, realizing half a second too late that it's landing on the splotches of sloshed wine there. She curses, scooping it up and wiping off the dampness with a dish towel.

"Mom?" Henry's vice comes to her, sweet and concerned and Regina feels it like a lance to the belly. Her vision is swimming with unshed tears already, and there's a knot in her throat blocking her voice. All she can manage to do is hold up a hand - to silence him or wave him off, she's not sure.

Emma comes to her rescue for the third time that night and Regina thinks she should do something for her. A thank you. Maybe bake her something, but then _anyone can do that_. Regina's head drops forward as she tries to suppress a shuddering breath.

"Why don't you go brush your teeth?" the blonde says. Henry tries to protest, but Emma is insistent. "Henry, come on," she cajoles, her voice dropping when she urges, "Give your mom a minute, okay?"

Shame slithers into her belly, slick and hot, at the idea that her son should need to _give her a minute_, that one phone call from her mother has her so keyed up that she can't even parent her son properly for a moment.

His reluctant, "Okay," breaks her heart clean down the middle, and she can hear him shifting, hear the squeak of the papasan's frame as he maneuvers himself out of it and heads for the bathroom. She lifts the wine with shaking fingers and gulps.

"You alright?" Emma asks her quietly a moment later, suddenly no more than a foot from her. Regina nods and wipes at the traitorous tears that have begun to spill down her cheeks.

"I'm fine," she rasps. "I'm just–" Hurt, embarrassed, knocked down, all would be appropriate, but she finishes with "Angry," because at least that one is strong.

"Yeah, I can see that," Emma sympathizes mildly. "What dumbass thing did she say this time?"

"It's not what she says," Regina's voice is watery. "It's what she implies. And her implications were very clear: that Robin could do better than a college drop-out who bakes for a living, and I should just try not to screw everything up."

"Your mom's a real piece of work, you know that?" Emma mutters, reaching for the wine and swigging a sip straight from the bottle. Regina nods, sniffles, lifts her own wine to her lips and drinks deeply again. "And you know she's full of shit, right? That her 'implications' are bull."

Regina nods again, although she can still hear the words _try not to embarrass yourself_ and _not your usual company_ and _when you were still trying._ They're circling around her throat, tightening, choking her, wrapping themselves up with their friends _well, that's something at least_ and _I hope you have plenty to talk about_ and _I wonder what caught his interest_.

Regina gulps the wine again, half of it gone now, using it to swallow down the bitterness of her mother's well-aimed barbs.

"Good," Emma says resolutely. "Don't let that bitch get to you, alright? Even if she is your mother. If she can say all that crap - or imply it, whatever - then she doesn't know you."

"She doesn't care to," Regina admits, aiming for bitter, but mostly managing to pull off hurt.

"Her loss," Emma shrugs. "Do you want me to take reading time tonight?" she offers as Regina continues to swipe at tears - they're coming more slowly now, but coming all the same.

"No, I can do it," Regina insists, because she absolutely will not let one stupid phone call from her awful, manipulative mother ruin her time with her son. Still, she doesn't want him to see her like this, and teeth brushing time is rapidly dwindling. So she caves, compromises with herself, and feels utterly pathetic when she asks, "But do you think you could get him tucked in?"

"Yeah, of course," Emma agrees gamely, reaching over and squeezing Regina's shoulder. "Take a minute, okay?"

Regina nods and chugs the rest of her wine with a grimace, then retreats to her bedroom. She just needs five minutes. Five minutes to breathe, and settle, and then she'll get back to Henry and Sirius Black, and hearing Robin's voice in her head telling her how much he loves her, instead of Cora's telling her how much potential she's wasted.


	12. Week Ten - Part Two

Mother sticks with her, as always. Has her tossing and turning half the night, and scowling bitterly for much of the day, her dread over this party ever-increasing, so that by the time Robin arrives to pick her up, she is a roiling sea of jangled nerves.

She's in the bedroom moving the essentials from her purse to her clutch when he buzzes up, so Emma lets him in. Regina can hear snatches of their conversation - "you clean up well" and "you just need a good excuse is all" and "smokin' hot, you're gonna have to roll your tongue up off the carpet."

Regina realizes her lipstick is still in the bathroom, and there's food and drink at this party, so she's sure she'll have to reapply. She sighs and leaves her room, heels click-clacking on the hardwood as she strides into the common area.

"Hello there, gorgeous," Robin greets her immediately, and he has roses again. White this time.

"Hi," she answers back tersely, never breaking stride. "I just need to grab one more thing..."

His mouth tips into a frown and he nods, then mutters an awed "Wow..." when she's turned her back on him, Emma's smirking _I bet you thought I was exaggerating_ coming in response.

Regina shuts the door behind her, takes a few deep breaths and tells herself to snap out of it.

Her mother is wrong. (Her mother is right.) She's not about to make a fool of herself. (She has nothing in common with these people.) It would be a shame to waste this dress, and come to think of it, she still owes Ruby that bread pudding… (She could wear the dress on another date, with him, just him, just the two of them, and when did she become this person? This neurotic, frightened person?)

One more breath, in then out, and she tucks her lipstick away in her purse, straightens her shoulders and reemerges.

Robin is perched on the arm of the sofa, but he looks up when she walks back in, shifts the bouquet in his grasp and stands.

"All set?" he asks, and she nods. She feels nauseous.

Robin holds out the flowers to her, says, _For you_, and she takes them from his grasp, frowning into the blooms as she inhales the sweet scent. She loves the smell of roses… She sniffs again, breathes deeply, and mutters, "Thank you, they're beautiful."

His arm loops around her waist; he leans in to kiss her cheek. "So are you." Her gaze flicks up to his. "Truly. I've always thought red was your best color, but I have to say this blue is particularly stunning."

Regina nods, mutters, "It better be for what I paid for it," and hands the flowers off to Emma. "Can you put these in something? I don't want to be late."

The party doesn't start for another ten minutes, and will go for several hours after that. Robin had assured her that nobody, nearly nobody, would arrive exactly on time and that they could show up any time in the first hour and be perfectly punctual. She doesn't care. She wants to go, get there, and leave as soon as humanly possible. Before she has a chance to put her foot in her mouth, or make a fool of herself, or embarrass him the way her stupid, critical, manipulative mother is so sure she will.

_Shut it out_, she tells herself. _It's all bull. She's wrong about all of it._

Emma takes the flowers and says, "Yeah, okay, no problem," in that overly sympathetic way she's been using to talk to Regina off and on for the last twenty-four hours. Regina feels a flash of temper, tired of the kid-gloves even if they're well-meaning.

She turns to Robin, says, "Let's get going," and moves to put on her coat. If she'd waited a half-second longer, she might have seen the look he exchanges with Emma. But she hadn't, so she doesn't.

They're out in the hallway before he reaches for her arm (she's two paces ahead of him, halfway to the stairs already), stilling her and asking, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

The breath he blows out is all frustration, and one gloved hand rises to rake through his hair, disheveling it. "Are we back to this, my love?"

Regina rankles immediately, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, her lips parted in indignation. "_Excuse me?_"

"Clearly something's bothering you," he says, trying to gentle his tone but not succeeding terribly well. Her anger is annoying him, or frustrating him at the very least, and that just makes her feel worse. More pent up, even less inclined to leave the house to go stumble through idle chit chat with a bunch of intellectuals for a few hours. "You've been short with me, you've been scowling since the moment you walked out of the bedroom; it's like I'm leading you to the gallows instead of a bar for a few hours of merriment."

He's right.

She knows he's right, she can feel it, this helpless, anxious anger her mother has left festering inside her. She keeps telling herself to let it go, but her guts are churning, her palms are sweaty inside her gloves. She doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to go to this party. She is terrified, and, she realizes, pissed as hell about it. She's a grown-ass adult, and Cora can, as Emma has so often and so delicately put it, shove her poisonous words so far up her ass that she chokes on them.

Regina breathes in, breathes out, pinches the bridge of her nose where she can already feel a headache brewing, and says wearily, "It's not you. I've had a crappy day. Just drop it; let's go."

"Regina…" Robin sighs, stepping in closer and cupping her elbows in his palms. He's all resignation and concern when he asks, "Would you rather just not go?"

Yes. The answer is yes, but even his offering her an out she so desperately desires rubs her the wrong way. He's been looking forward to this - not to the party, per se, but to introducing her to his friends. The hours she keeps don't exactly lend themselves to socializing, and so he's met all the people she spends her days with, and she hasn't so much as set foot in the building where he works. He wants her to meet his colleagues, to see the people he sees every day, to be a part of his life, and now he's just giving all that up. She is offering to go, and he is offering her an out, and it nips viciously at the part of her that won't stop saying he'd be better off if she didn't attend.

"Is that what you'd prefer?" she questions, lifting her chin, tossing her hair back out of her face. "Not going?"

His jaw clenches for a moment, and _how did this become a fight?_, she wonders. But then she remembers - she picked it. She started it. So fine, fine, they're fighting, they're arguing again, and once more it's her that's the instigator.

"No, I'd prefer to be there, actually," he tells her. "With you beside me. But I'm getting the distinct impression that's not what _you_ want."

"Yes, well, not everything is about me," Regina snips, tightening her hold on herself and repeating, "Now, let's go."

"No, it's not about you," he agrees, hands landing in his pockets as he looks at her steadily. "It's about your mum, right?" Regina's eyes go wide, her heartbeat pounding - how? No. She doesn't even notice how he manages to gentle himself fully when he asks her, "What'd she say to you, lovely?"

"What did Emma tell you?" Regina bites coldly, because that is the only way he could possibly know that her mother has anything to do with this. She was out of earshot for a whopping two minutes tops, and her roommate managed to betray her. So much for baking her those damn cupcakes. She can just forget that.

"Just that she called, and that it upset you." His hands are at her arms again, thumbs stroking above her elbows and she shakes him off, hard. She's trapped there, though, between him and the wall at her back. Seething. "I was worried I'd done something unintentionally; she wanted me to know it wasn't that. That's all. Now, please, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about," Regina mutters, a hair above a whisper.

"Clearly, that's not true," he argues. "You're as wound up as I've ever seen you, Regina. _Talk_ to me. I love you; I want to help."

He can't. She knows he can't. She's been trying to use his love and his words as an antidote to the toxic whisperings of her mother and her own miserable insecurities all day, and look where it's gotten her. A temporary balm that has left her feeling shaky and raw and miserable every time it proves too weak to cover her wounds. Like she's walking to the gallows instead of a party, just as he said, and it's so criminally unfair. This isn't his fault. He hasn't done anything, and she's not his to fix - she's not a thing that needs fixing in the first place. She's not broken.

Just being incredibly, painfully stupid. Again.

So she sighs, and asks him, "Do you really want to do this now? On our way to a party?" because she knows this will not be a short conversation, and as much as she hates to admit it, it's one that will probably turn her perfect makeup application into a streaky, puddly mess. And then they might as well not go at all, because by the time she fixes it, by the time she finishes spilling her rotten guts and putting herself back together again, they'll be arriving just as soon as they have to leave in order for her to be up for work in the morning (work, and Marian, she thinks with another stab of anxiety, another twist of the vise starting to squeeze at her temples).

"If you'll be miserable all night until we do? Yes," he tells her, and he dares to reach for her hands. This time, she lets him. She doesn't return his grip, but she lets him give her fingers a light squeeze, and hold them in his own. "I'd rather get it all out now."

"I don't want to get it out now," she tells him, sounding far too much as if she's pleading for her liking. "If we talk about this now, we're not going. And you want to go, and I want to go and get this over with. So come on." He hesitates, he's not swayed. "Robin… No, I don't want to go. But it's for stupid reasons, and I don't want to talk about them, and I won't feel any better sitting at home. So can you please just hold my hand, and take me to meet your friends?"

For a minute, he just frowns at her, and then he sighs, and nods, and leads her toward the stairs with a hand at the small of her back. When they reach the street, his fingers weave with hers, and aside from the separation necessitated by the subway turnstile, he doesn't let go until they've reached their destination.

**.::.**

The party is at a bar, nothing impressive, nothing fancy, but big enough to have a back room reserved just for the occasion. They shed their coats near the door, draping them over a chair at a table it seems the others have decided to use for just this purpose (Regina keeps her purse, strings it over her shoulder by the thin chain-like strap tucked inside and forces herself not to fiddle with it immediately). Their first stop is the open bar, for which Regina could not be more grateful. Robin orders a beer, Regina wine. It gives her something to keep her hands busy, at least, and Robin links their fingers again as soon as they step away.

She surveys the room - it's not packed, but there are plenty of people there. She's one of the youngest, she thinks (no surprise there, not a lot of college professors in their twenties, after all). But all in all, they don't look intimidating. She tells herself again to let it all go, not to let her mother get to her (too late for that, clearly).

And then Robin is leading her away, toward one side of the room, leaning in to murmur to her, "We're going to go say hello to Leopold Blanchard - he's the one there in the tweed suit with the elbow patches." Regina glances around, sees their target. An older man with graying hair and an even grayer bread, a snifter of brandy in hand. "He's department co-chair, and we're saying hello because it would be impolite not to say hello at all, but quite frankly he's a bit of a cad, and if we say hello on his first glass of brandy he's much less likely to make inappropriate comments about how fetching you look in that dress."

"Got it," Regina answers, lifting her wine for a quick sip and preparing to be leered at and ignore it.

"Also, his daughter is one Mary Margaret Blanchard," Robin begins, and Regina stops in her tracks and turns to look at him.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard?" she repeats, and Robin nods, smiling knowingly at her. "As in, Henry's teacher Mary Margaret Blanchard?"

"The very same," he confirms. "I told you you'd not lack for conversation."

Regina gapes slightly, her jaw working as she tries to process this new, unexpected information. "You work with Henry's teacher's father?"

"I do."

"And you've never said anything about it?"

Robin shrugs. "I've only just found out, to be honest. I didn't know until a week ago, and I figured it'd be a good ice breaker tonight. So." He smirks at her, gesturing forward. "Shall we?"

Regina takes a deep breath and nods, sipping her wine again and letting Robin lead the way.

"Robin, so good to see you," Leopold greets them, and Regina studies his face and tries to see Ms. Blanchard there. She must take after her mother. "And who is this lovely lady?"

Blanchard turns his gaze to her and smiles in a way that should be kind but is still somehow unsettling - maybe it's the way his eyes are still completing their once-over of her. Robin introduces her, and Regina slips her hand from his (manages to subtly drag her still-damp palm across the edge of his sleeve before she holds it out), telling the older man that _it's nice to meet you_. His hand is clammy and cold, and instead of relinquishing his hold on her, he shifts it, lifts her knuckles to his lips and brushes a kiss there, a whisper of a thing but Regina wants out nonetheless. Robin's hand has moved to her back now, and she feels his fingers tense against her bare skin.

"Likewise," Leopold says with another smile, and Regina draws her hand back as politely as possible and fights the urge to take a long pull on her wine.

Instead, she steers their conversation, tells him, "Robin tells me your daughter teaches my son."

The man's whole demeanor shifts, his face brightening with a father's pride. "You know my Mary Margaret?"

Regina tells him that she does, that she's one of Henry's favorite teachers, and then she finally takes that long sip of wine.

They talk for a while, the three of them, about Henry, about Ms. Blanchard, about the challenges facing New York City schools and public education in general, and about the challenges of raising children in Manhattan. She never would've guessed that sweet, lovely Ms. Blanchard was born and raised in the City, but it seems she's misjudged her.

For all his politeness, she doesn't miss the way Blanchard's eyes sweep her up and down a time or three while they're talking. When he parts ways with them, having spotted someone else across the room he needs to say his hellos to, Regina holds her tongue until he's out of earshot and then mutters, "I feel like I need a shower." She rolls her shoulders, sips her wine again.

"And that's on the first glass of brandy," Robin mutters, his hands coasting up and down her spine soothingly.

"How did that man raise _Mary Margaret Blanchard_?" Regina muses. "Do you think maybe it's all an act, and deep down she's some neurotic, tortured city kid, who had some sort of _Girl, Interrupted_ stint in high school and emerged a sunny daffodil, all rainbow kisses and unicorn stickers, and believing in the hope of a better tomorrow?"

Robin snorts a laugh and shakes his head, suggesting, "Maybe he's a different man at home. Or perhaps she just has a lovely mother."

Regina sobers slightly, mutters, "Must be nice." She regrets it almost immediately when Robin grows serious, too, his hand on her spine again. He leans in and presses a kiss to her cheekbone, and Regina assures him, "I'm fine. Ignore me." Before he can tell her he'll do nothing of the sort, she forges ahead, "Who else do we need to meet before they get creepy and drunk?"

Thankfully, he accepts the change in topic, scanning the room, before nodding in acknowledgement to a man not six feet away from them. They start heading his way as he heads theirs, albeit a bit more slowly on account of the cane he walks with. Whatever the injury that necessitates it, it can't be too terrible. The limp slows him down only slightly, and he seems perfectly able-bodied otherwise. He's well-dressed, in a suit and tie, his hair a mousy brown and longish, down past his ears. He smiles in greeting, revealing a single gold tooth.

"Alasdair, how've you been?" Robin greets him coolly - not unkindly, but there's something off there. An animosity Regina can't quite place.

"Quite well, Mr. Locksley, and yourself?"

"Good, good," Robin assures. "Party's a bit quiet this year, eh?"

"Oh, I'm sure it'll pick up," the man muses, and then he looks at Regina. "It usually does. Do introduce me to your friend?"

"Regina Mills, Alasdair Gold," Robin introduces, and this time when she holds out her hand, she doesn't get her fingers kissed. Just a stab of guilt when the man has to shift his cane from one hand to the other in order to grasp the hand she's offered.

His handshake is firm, but brief. "Regina," he repeats, before complimenting, "What a lovely name."

It throws her – she's not used to that particular reaction to an introduction – but she manages a thank-you nonetheless.

"Could you indulge a poor old man and give me your middle name as well?"

"Alasdair teaches linguistics," Robin explains. "He has a particular interest in the meanings of things."

"The written word is a powerful thing," Gold agrees. "Even names carry with them their own weight and significance - whether our parents mean for them to do so or not."

Hers is a doozy, she knows, so she smiles as she offers it up. "Victoria. Regina Victoria."

Gold lets out a chuckle, translates, "Triumphant Queen."

"I'd say my mother had a sense of humor, but it is actually a family name. Victoria, anyway," she clarifies. "Regina was all my parents."

"Then perhaps they have a sense of humor after all."

"What about you?" she asks Robin, glancing back to Gold. "What does his name mean?"

"Ah, I do believe it was fame and fortune, was it not?" Robin asks Gold, who nods in confirmation.

"A shining, wealthy guardian," Gold adds.

"Still waiting on that one to come to fruition," Robin smirks at her, and Regina feels herself relax just slightly. This isn't so bad. She can do this. "What about you, Alasdair? I never have asked."

"Defender of mankind," Gold declares and Regina chuckles into her wine.

"So no pressure there either," she teases lightly before taking her sip.

"No, no, none at all," he agrees, humor evident in his voice, his smile. "It's a wonder we haven't all succumbed to some deep-seated parental issues."

_Seriously?_ she thinks. Is she wearing a sign? 'I have mommy issues, and they're smothering me half to death right now, so let's please bring them up whenever possible.' Is it in neon above her?

Thankfully, the conversation shifts almost immediately, and doesn't last much longer. It's polite and cordial, but that tension lingers underneath - whoever Alasdair Gold is, he and Robin are not friends.

"Ah, it seems your Merry Men have arrived," Gold tells Robin a few minutes later, looking at something over her shoulder. "I'd better leave you to your introductions. It was lovely to meet you, Miss Mills."

She returns the sentiment, and then turns her gaze on Robin as he leads her away. "Merry Men?" she questions with an amused, doubtful brow raise.

Robin actually rolls his eyes, and sighs, and admits, "Yes, well, when your parents name you Robin Locksley, you have more than fame and protecting to deal with. You're also the butt of every Robin Hood joke one can think of - and the fact that you've never made a single one is one of the reasons I love you so dearly, by the way."

She smiles, keeps to herself that the thought has occurred to her more than once in the time they've known each other.

The "Merry Men" in question are the first people at the party Regina has at least a cursory familiarity with, and they're also the ones who are most familiar with her. She's introduced to August Booth, Associate Professor of Writing and Robin's officemate at the college, who greets her with a warm smile and a promise that if Robin ever goes crazy and lets her go, he'll be right there waiting for her, and won't ask for anything more than a daily batch of apple cider donuts. They're off the menu now, a fall special past its season, but she makes a mental note to send another batch to work with Robin one of these days.

John Little is a tall, almost hulking man, with long curly hair, a friendly beard, and a pint of beer in hand already. He was Robin's first TA, back when he became faculty (he's now a Teaching Fellow in the department, hopes to find himself with a faculty position of his own one of these days), and has been around for Roland's birth, the dissolution of Robin's marriage, and, she discovers now, all of Robin's hemming and hawing about asking her out in the first place.

"It's nice to finally meet the woman who has stolen our Robin away," he teases, and Regina smiles sympathetically. These men are two of Robin's best friends, and she knows he's seen them in the last few months, has even been out for drinks with them several times, but she also knows she's monopolizing much of his free time, and his friends probably have a right to some lighthearted ribbing. "I was starting to worry he still hadn't asked you out, and was just lying about the whole thing to get us to stop yelling at him to shit or get off the pot."

She laughs at that, a real, genuine chortle and turns to smile at Robin, finds him grinning sheepishly back at her. "I still have a hard time believing you were shy about pursuing me. You've done it so avidly since then."

"It wasn't shyness," Robin insists. "It was carefully choosing my moment, that's all."

"It was a bloody month," another of his friends taunts him, Will something, his last name has escaped her, but he's the other Brit of the group. "I've seen blokes get hitched faster than it took this man to ask you for coffee."

"In all fairness to Robin, I'd imagine those marriages didn't have a whole lot of longevity," August reasons, and as Regina watches the men give each other a hard time, she starts to feel comfortable for the first time all night. Not relaxed, not by any means, but comfortable. These are the easy people to please - the ones who care about his happiness more than his job, and know she makes him happy. The ones who have a genuine interest in her, but already a base knowledge. She's accepted without question, has been pre-judged and pre-approved.

She ends up in a conversation with August about baking pie, of all things – he's working on a novel, he tells her, and he can't bake to save his life – has never so much as baked a batch of cookies – but one of his characters needs to, and he wants to pick Regina's brain. For once, she's an expert, her profession serving an actual purpose for someone other than herself, her customers. She feels… smart. It's nice, refreshing, needed.

"Come by the bakery sometime," she invites him. "I'll walk you through the whole process, in person."

"Will there be donuts?" he asks her, and she chuckles, tells him she'll see what she can do.

And then Will is leaning in with a grave expression on his face, his gaze travelling beyond them as he mutters, "The Ice Queen cometh. I'm going to go refill my drink."

August blows out a breath and says he'll join him, tells Regina they'll talk more later, and then John gives Robin a look that's half guilt, half sympathy and points toward the bar, follows the other men. Regina's easy mood dampens again, her gaze flicking to Robin anxiously as he knocks back the last swallow of his beer and sets the empty bottle on a table.

"Why am I suddenly nervous?" she murmurs lowly, and he turns them, cupping her elbow.

There's a woman walking their direction, blonde and smartly dressed, her hair tied up neatly in a bun. She's not much older than Robin, but she carries herself like she rules the roost.

"Ingrid Isborg, department co-chair," Robin tells her. "She's a lovely, kind woman, whom I'm fairly certain could kill a man with a shrimp fork and smile over the body." He rushes the last few words in a whisper, his mouth already forming into the easy, charming smile he uses to greet the beautiful blonde. "You look lovely tonight, Dr. Isborg."

"Why, thank you, Robin, but please, I've told you - Ingrid." Ingrid Isborg's voice is sweet and soft, even tinged with the exasperation of correcting him on how to address her for what is clearly not the first time. She turns her perfectly pleasant face to Regina, her smile widening kindly. If it weren't for Robin's comments, Regina would think she was warm as a winter fireplace. "And this must be Regina."

Her gaze flicks to Robin – surprised to be known by name – then back to Ingrid. "Yes," she confirms. "It seems my reputation precedes me."

"It does indeed. Robin has been using your chocolate croissants to bribe himself into my good graces," Ingrid tells him with a bemused smile. "He wants my help in rearranging his course schedule next semester."

For Roland, she knows. He wants more time with him, another overnight on the weekends, and half of the day on Monday. Wants to trade his usual Monday morning course for the once-a-week evening session. So Regina smiles gamely and offers, "Well, if you're getting bored of croissants, I can send something else along with him next time."

"Oh, no," Ingrid assures. "The croissants are working just fine." She looks to Robin. "But you may want to send a few Kathryn's way - she's finally agreed to give up her prized Monday nights for your early mornings."

Robin lets out a groan of relief, a grin splitting his face, wide and easy as he thanks her profusely for whatever she's done to facilitate the change. Regina watches as the two talk shop for a little while. Sips her wine and observes, weaves her fingers with Robin's and squeezes.

This could be worse, she thinks. Could be much worse.

**.::.**

She excuses herself for the bathroom later in the evening and when she emerges, Robin is nowhere to be found. She stands at the edge of the room, scanning it again and again but she cannot see him anywhere, and she feels increasingly awkward. Where is he?

On her third visual sweep, she catches sight of Blanchard walking toward her and her stomach dips. She doesn't want to be stuck talking to him, she can still feel the echo of his clammy palm against her own.

In a blink, there's an arm around her waist, a hand turning her shoulder and she finds herself face-to-face with August, relieved, if a little startled. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then frowns slightly and says, "Y'know, I thought I'd rescue you from Handsy over there, but it seems all I've done is give him an opportunity to leer at the rear view. Sorry."

Regina fights the urge to squirm, and blurts, "Well, I do have a great ass," wincing immediately as she hears what has just come out of her mouth. So much for not embarrassing herself. "Oh God, I can't believe I just said that."

But August is laughing - at her but not _at_ her - and he shakes his head. "No, no, it's good. Confidence is good. And you probably shouldn't tell Robin I said this, but you're right. You do have a great ass."

Regina's cheeks are hot, and she is glad for the dark room because it means he can't see her blushing. "I'm not sure confidence is what I have, but thank you. Have you seen him?"

August nods and sips his drink - something amber-colored, with half-melted ice cubes floating in it. "He got a phone call and stepped out for a few minutes. I'm sure he'll be right back. And how can you not be confident in that dress?"

Regina tucks her hair anxiously behind her ear, wishes she had a drink of her own to keep her hands busy, settles for wrapping her fingers around the chain of her purse. "It's not the dress so much as the company," she admits. "Rooms full of strangers aren't my favorite thing."

"I see," August says, and then he's reaching for her again, guiding her toward the bar, his hand on the small of her back, thumb landing on her bare skin. "It's a good thing I'm not a stranger anymore, then. And as a new friend, I'm going to let you in on a little secret: the trick to surviving these things is lots of liquor," he shares conspiratorially, leading her to a pair of empty stools and signaling the bartender.

"Lots of liquor," she repeats, almost doubtfully.

He nods in affirmation, ordering them two shots of Jameson. "It _is_ an open bar," he reminds her, "And you have the added bonus of already knowing who you're going home with. No chance of you getting embarrassingly sloshed and taking home that coworker you never really liked in the first place."

"No, I suppose not," she agrees as two shot glasses are placed in front of them, the distinct aroma of whiskey wafting up. August reaches for one, and Regina dutifully grabs the other.

"To rooms full of strangers," he toasts, and Regina nods, clinking her shot glass against his before bringing it to her lips and knocking it back. She feels the warmth of the whiskey all the way down her throat before it settles in her belly and spreads.

They've just knocked back a second round ("to new friends") when Robin appears, smiling at the sight of them and stepping up behind Regina's stool, his palm settling warmly on her bare skin.

"Are you trying to get my girlfriend drunk?" he questions August playfully.

"I was saving her from Blanchard," August tells him, and Robin makes a grateful noise.

"Everything alright?" Regina asks him, three shot glasses appearing in front of them now, like magic.

Robin nods, tells her, "Just Marian," and Regina feels a sharp twist of anxiety at the thought of meeting the other woman tomorrow.

She reaches for the whiskey, lifts it and toasts with a halfway bitter smile, "To meeting ex-wives," not even waiting for the men to grab their drinks before hers is down the hatch. She should probably pace herself... the last thing she needs is to get drunk and sloppy.

"The colleagues _and_ the ex? Sounds like you're having quite a week," August remarks, tipping back his whiskey, then reaching for the glass he'd been nursing before.

"Yeah," she agrees tersely. "You could say that."

Robin's hand rubs against her shoulders, his face twisting into a pained grimace as he places his now-empty shot glass onto the bar. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, probably another reassurance she doesn't want to hear right now, so she turns her attention to August and says, "So. Tell me more about this book."

Robin lets the moment slip away, and August begins to tell her more about his latest work of fiction, a fantastical tale about curses and fairies and dark magic. When the bartender comes by for their last round of empties, she orders another glass of wine, even though the world is already a bit swirly around the edges - and no wonder after the liquor she'd just pounded. But August is right, it makes the whole thing more bearable, less anxiety-inducing, and Regina settles into her buzz, lets it float her through conversation for the rest of the evening.

**.::.**

She's still tipsy when they get back to his place, still pleasantly loose-limbed, and so she doesn't protest a bit when he kisses her as soon as they're through the door, tugging at the buttons of her coat, pushing it to the floor and sending her purse along with it with a muffled thunk. She hums appreciatively, lets him kiss and kiss, her tongue moving eagerly against his.

His coat ends up on the floor next, his scarf, his gloves (her own). "I can't decide whether to fuck you in that dress or strip you out of it," he mutters as he slides toward her jaw, covering it in warm, nipping kisses, and Regina has the urge to tell him _Both_, but she knows enough about male biology and how early she has to be up in the morning to know that's not terribly likely.

So she doesn't answer, just clutches him closer, lets him pin her to the door and wraps one heeled foot around his calf. She tugs at his shirt, works blindly, clumsily at the buttons as his mouth makes her shiver and sigh, her hips pushing against his. He's hard already, grinding back against her sloppily, and then his shirt is on the ground, too, and they part long enough for him to yank off his undershirt.

His hands are on her arms next, tugging, urging her to turn, to face the door, and she does, bracing her palms there as his hands move around her front, along her belly, up to her breasts, his mouth finding her shoulder, teeth tugging at the ribbon that ties behind her neck. He drops kisses all over the bare skin of her back, bites lightly at her spine, and tells her, "You're so sexy, my love. This dress is… I've been waiting to do this all night."

She mutters something like, "Well, then, by all means," and he seems to have decided on fucking her out of the dress, because he's tugging at the zipper, muttering something about how her ass is a crime as he draws it down, down, peeling the fabric open until she can shimmy out of it. It crumples to the floor, too, as his mouth trails a damp line of open-mouthed kisses down the length of her spine, pausing for a moment when he meets the strap that criss-crosses her back, turning her bra into a low-back. He fumbles briefly, then figures it out, unhooking and leaving her to shed that as well as he kisses lower, lower still.

He ends up on his knees behind her, fingers curling into the waist of her black pantyhose and tugging them and her underwear down to her ankles, helping her step out of her heels. Warm palms coast along the backs of her thighs, between them, urging her to part them before his fingertips stroke through her slick heat. He rubs circles over her clit for a few seconds, then sinks two fingers into her. It's a new angle, a little awkward maybe, but _good_ – or maybe that's just the whiskey talking, she's not sure.

"Spread your legs a little, lovely," Robin urges, and she does, giving him more room, a little more freedom of movement. He takes advantage, fucking her more deeply, his fingers crooking and finding just the right spot inside of her. Surer now, less awkward.

"Yes," she hisses, drawing it out, lifting her head back as his fingers draw her pleasure out, coax heat into her belly.

"Like that?" he questions, and she nods, murmurs _Yeah_. He keeps it up, his tongue trailing along the back of her thigh, his mouth planting kisses everywhere he can reach. The pressure in her belly builds, tightens, and she's moaning and sighing, gasping and curling her fingers against the door. Her mouth is dry, her head still spinning pleasantly, drunkenly. Everything feels a little disconnected and somehow sharp-focused at the same time.

He nips at the curve of her ass, and she moans, "God, Robin," feeling everything clench and release. "Don't stop..."

"Can you come like this?" he asks, doubling his pace, fingers pressing in quick, short thrusts, in just the right spot. Regina lets out a little wail and nods. "Do you need to touch yourself? Your clit?"

She almost tells him no, that she doesn't need to, that this will be enough - because she thinks it might be, this hard, deep, quick pressure - but her arousal is coiled tight, tighter, ready to spin out and unspool, and she knows it'll be faster and better if she has the dual stimulation. So she shifts her weight against the door and reaches down to rub at herself, her thighs trembling at the influx of sharper pleasure.

"That's it," he urges softly. "Don't hold back…"

She cries out softly, because she knows he loves to hear her, to hear everything he can draw out of her, and sure enough he moans and presses his forehead to the outside of her thigh. "I've wanted you all night," he admits quietly. "Wanted to drag you into the bathroom and hike that dress up to your hips." Oh, God… "Take you right there, under all their noses." She moans harshly, trembling now, close, fuck, his words are affecting her, just the thought, the image.

"Why didn't you?" she pants, moans, the words out of her mouth before they've really crossed her mind. His fingers are steady, relentless, pushing her, driving her, her nippes are tight, she wants him to touch them, to lick, to suck, wants him to fuck her. Now. Soon. Now.

Robin chuckles against her hip, nips lightly, and says, "You've been a bit anxious tonight. Didn't seem the time."

"Maybe – oh – it would have – unh – helped me re– _Robin_, oh fu– my –" Orgasm washes over her in a wave, an open cry breaking from her lips. One of her knees buckles slightly, but his free hand finds her thigh, supports her as his fingers thump and pound, and hers flutter against her clit. She moans and moans and pushes back into his touch, and he's murmuring to her, encouraging, complimenting, and she feels brilliant and beautiful and sexy and strong.

And then his fingers pull away, slip out of her, and he is standing and turning her, telling her, "I need you," and "want to see your face when you come again," as he yanks at his belt and button, drags down his zipper.

Regina leans back against the door and swallows dryly, her heart still pounding, her palms pressed to the wood. When his pants are at his calves and sinking lower, he shuffles in closer and reaches for her knee, hiking it up, his cock hard and ready between them, pressing into her belly as he kisses her again. His mouth is hot, needy, her knee is hooked over his forearm now, his other hand moving down, lining himself up. Regina shifts a little, trying to make it easier for him, her foot slipping an inch on some of the fabric piled around their feet.

She tries to work her foot somewhere steadier, with better traction, but she can't with her other leg up like this, and then he's pushing into her - oh, that's… that's good.

Robin groans into her mouth, and thrusts again, again, and Regina feels unsteady, off-kilter. Pleasured but awkward.

"Wait," she mutters against his lips. "I - my foot is slipping."

He pauses, drops his forehead to hers, still buried inside her.

"I can't – I need my other leg."

"What if I just–" Robin reaches down, and hoists said other leg up, too - a risky maneuver with him still buried inside her, because she squeaks and slips and then grips his shoulders, recovers. He jostles her a little, pins her more tightly against the door. Regina tries to close her legs around his waist, but it's awkward with his arms under her knees the way they are, and he urges her, "No, no, leave them open. You like it better when I can get deeper."

She can't argue that, but she wriggles a little, wraps her arms more securely around his neck and hoists herself up slightly. He's strong, he still manages to find time to go to the gym now and then, his arms are sturdy, and with his palms pressed to the door on either side of her, she thinks it's enough to hold her until they finish. And she knows he'd never let her fall (they'd both be hurting pretty badly if she did right now anyway, it's in his best interest to give this up if it's going to be a challenge), so she nods, and says, "Okay," and then he's drawing his hips back, pushing them in.

He was right - it's good like this, with her spread wide, with her thighs hiked up in his hold. The pleasure has her moaning softly, her lashes fluttering shut. Robin begins to pick up the pace, and Regina begins to let out a regular stream of moans and sighs, her nails scratching lightly against his shoulders as pleasure blooms and blooms in her belly.

"God," she gasps, and "oh," and "you feel so–"

She breaks off on a moan, but he'll have none of it, asking her warmly, "Feel so what, lovely? Tell me," he urges, his voice a little breathless with effort, "Tell me how it feels."

She opens her mouth to answer, but she can't. The words are on the tip of her tongue, bold and explicit, and her cheeks heat, her belly clenches. She can't quite bring herself to say them, so she presses her lips together again, turns her head slightly to the side.

"No, don't – mmh – don't be shy, my love," he murmurs, ducking his head in, skimming his nose along her jaw and then kissing wetly beneath her ear. His voice is right there, against her skin, tickling and warm when he assures her, "You can tell me anything, my sweet. Never hold back with me." He's still pistoning steadily in and out of her, and he presses his mouth to her neck for a moment and moans quietly, then shifts his arms a little. "I love you. Tell me."

And she loves him too, she does, and trusts him on top of it. She pushes at the nerves, tells herself they're ridiculous, it's ridiculous to feel at all bashful with a man who has her spread open against a door and is buried inside of her. So she swallows and breathes in, her voice low and husky when she manages, "You feel so – mm – so good like this. Love feeling you – oh – inside me, moving in and – unh – in and out, you make me feel so – oh – so – Robin, God, I – harder–" He obliges, pushes deeper, harder, faster, and Regina cries out softly, "Yeah, like that, like that, God, you feel so thick, your cock, I love, I love you, I love – OH!"

She's close, right on the edge, but he's stopping - why is he stopping? He stops moving, draws out of her despite her protests, and lowers her feet back to the ground.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, repeating it as he shakes out his wrists, then lifts a hand behind her head to pull her in for another kiss. When it breaks, he says, "I need to see your face, and my arm is starting to cramp."

Regina chuckles and nods, her arms still around his neck as they walk back toward the sofa, kissing all the while, stumbling a little in their scattered clothes. He turns her so the soft leather bumps into the backs of her legs, then breaks the kiss.

"Lie down, lovely," he urges, and she does, stretching out with her head pillowed against one end of the sofa. She expects him to move on top of her, but he spreads her thighs and slips a knee onto the sofa instead. His thumb coasts over her clit, down to her opening, sinking in, then withdrawing, rubbing along her sex lightly. Making sure she's still wet enough, she realizes with a flush of affection. She smiles, and he smiles back, then sinks into her again, his palm moving along her thighs, settling in the crooks of her knees, lifting them higher, up toward her torso. "Is this alright?" he asks, his weight sinking onto her thighs just a little, he's bracing himself against them.

Regina nods, assures him that, yes, it's good. Robin draws out, and pushes back in, and _oh_, she moans thickly, her jaw dropping. He feels bigger like this, even thicker, and when he thrusts in again, she feels it deep in her belly. "So good," she amends, and Robin chuckles knowingly, murmurs, _Good_ and begins to move in earnest.

Regina writhes. With every push into her she can _feel_ him, feel the slick, sliding friction of his cock in and out of her, feel the blunt punch of pleasure low in her belly. She grinds her head into the cushions, tips her head back and moans, her jaw still slack. She moans, moans, whines, whimpers, grips the cushions beneath her hips. Fuck, this is, God, she's so lucky, this should never stop, never ever stop…

Her eyes are open, her gaze sweeping over Robin as he fucks her, deep, measured, steady, God, his _cock_. His eyes are dark, wanting, muscles shifting in his shoulders as he adjusts, moves, pushes into her again, again. His face is drawn in pleasure, breath puffing out, his jaw working slightly, like this feels as good to him as it does to her.

"You're so lovely," he mutters, openly admiring her, watching her breasts bounce, watching himself fuck into her, watching her face. And Regina feels it - feels lovely, just like he says, her shame and anxiety bleeding away. He wants her, _wants_ her, wants _her_, and she can feel it in the way he moves in her, the way he looks at her, the way he has to close his eyes against the sight of her every now and then, his jaw clenching. She feels something loosen in her belly, some anxious, knotted thing, and lets herself relax and enjoy. Lets herself revel, her eyes slipping shut, her thighs relaxing infinitesimally.

She's not as close as she was, their change of location enough to have drawn her back from the precipice, but then he leans forward, shifting his grip to the arm of the sofa, the pitch of his torso pushing her thighs higher, letting him grind against her clit when he pushes inside. Regina's head snaps back on a pleasured cry, the stretch in her thighs barely an echo of discomfort – she's bent nearly in half, but he's deep, so deep, he drags roughly against her with every thrust, and she's galloping toward that peak again, squeezing her eyes shut, listening to him gasp and groan on top of her.

Fuck, fuck, oh fuck, oh god, faster, deeper, fuck -

She doesn't realize she's saying it all out loud until he picks up the pace and rails hard into her with a grunt, and she gasps and stiffens, so close, her jaw dropping, stretching open wide in a silent scream. She nods frantically, and he does it again, again, until she's coming apart beneath him, coming and clenching and letting out loud, throaty cries, nothing held back, not from him, not ever, not ever, she loves him, loves him so much, loves him deep, loves him fucking her like this, loves everything, everything, even loves the moment he moans harshly and pushes so deep she feels a dull throb of pain (it turns out there _is_ such a thing as too deep, but she's so far gone at this point she pays it very little mind).

And then it's over, and the room is silent save for their heavy, panting breaths. The shift and squeak of sweaty skin and slick leather comes a few moments later as he draws out of her, and lowers her thighs (they ache now, unused to the stretch - she's flexible, but not a Russian gymnast, and it's been a long time since she's had to be so limber). They end up with him on his back, her draped across his chest, their legs tangled, her head against his shoulder as they both wait for their breathing to slow, their pulses to even out.

Regina is the first to speak, long minutes later. They've been silent, not a word until now. She might think he was asleep if it wasn't for the way he's trailing his fingers through her hair, across her shoulders.

"I'm a disappointment to my mother," she tells him quietly, ready to talk now. Now that she's relaxed, now that she feels open and intimate and loved. "She wanted more from me. Vassar, and a 'respectable' job, and last night when I told her the man I'm seeing is a professor she said 'well, at least that's something.' Like... like she thinks you're better than me. And I want to not care what she thinks, but...she's my mother. And I have not lived up to my potential."

"And what exactly does she call running your own successful small business?" he asks her, fingers still trailing, lulling her, soothing her.

Still, she feels the burn, the bitterness on her tongue when she answers, "Baking cakes."

"It's more than that," he assures her, quietly, and she knows he feels that way (and so does she), but it's irrelevant to the conversation.

"Not to her," Regina sighs, her hand curving around his shoulder, her belly itchy where his sweaty skin presses to hers. "Not when I could have been more. She said to me… She said your parents must be proud of you." Regina's voice cracks faintly, and she takes a deep breath, before admitting in a whisper, "She never tells me she's proud of me. She never is."

He deflates beneath her, a heavy, despondent exhale.

"She used me to hurt you," he says, like the very idea pains him, and Regina shakes her head, because no, that's not what happened, not really.

"It's not like that. She just…" She tries to find the words to explain it to him, what she's been living with all these years, but the only words she can give him are Cora's. "She feels like I wasted my potential. Squandered all my hard work to do something… frivolous." It's not true, she tells herself. It's not true. And anyway, "She just wants what's best for me…"

It's what she's told herself for years, all her life, every time her mother beats her down. It's what her father used to tell her when she was young, when Cora would leave her in frustrated, anguished tears.

Robin is quick to tell her, "If that were true, my love, she wouldn't have made you feel this way," and Regina's heart clenches.

Her mother loves her. She knows she does. She knows it. But that doesn't stop it all from hurting, doesn't stop that heavy, squeezing feeling from gripping her heart, doesn't stop her throat from tightening. Because love or not, her mother has _hurt_ her, has wounded her, and Cora's not stupid, she's not blind, she had to know, and…

Regina sighs heavily, thinking of her own child, of whether he could ever disappoint her as much as she has her own mother. She swallows thickly.

"I love Henry," she manages. "I love him more than anything in this life, and I could _never_ talk to him the way she talks to me." The tears spill over then, fat and hot, burning down across the bridge of her nose, back into her hair, and she wishes she was not so naked. That they were in bed at least. She burrows in closer to Robin's side, wedges herself more firmly between him and the back of the sofa.

"She _shouldn't _talk to you that way," he soothes, holding her more tightly for a moment, then reaching for the throw blanket folded up under the coffee table and dragging it over them. It's wooly, a little itchy, but it's warm and she feels better covered.

"It's like she _wants_ to hurt me," she chokes, and she's never said this before. Not to anyone. Not since Daniel. "Like she knows exactly what will twist the knife, and hurt the most, and she does it anyway. When she's like this, it's like punishment. And I don't know what I was supposed to do better? Give up Henry? Abort him?" It's unthinkable - had been unthinkable for her even then, even when it was something that could have been considered a smart option, a way to preserve the future she'd thought was all laid out for her. "I couldn't have stayed at Vassar, not with Henry, not by myself. Not after Daniel… I had to drop out. I had no choice. And I know I was always going to go back, but it's hard. Raising a child by yourself is hard. He's everything; I couldn't put myself first, not when I was all he had. I'm not… I'm not her. And she loves him, I know she does, but… I think she sometimes still wishes I'd done 'the smart thing.' That I hadn't kept him, and I'd stayed in school, and I'd become something… better. Something she thinks is better."

"You're wonderful just as you are," he tells her, lifting her fingers to his lips and kissing them, and she's sick of it. She loves him, but she's tired of the reassurances. Tired of needing them.

She shifts and props herself up on her elbow, her bicep stretched across his shoulder, tears streaked across her face. "Not to her."

"Fuck her," Robin tells her fiercely and from here she can truly see the anger he's carrying on her behalf. Can see the tight lines of it on his face, the set of it in his jaw. "She doesn't deserve you. If she can't see how wonderful you are, despite all the shit she's put you through, she doesn't deserve you."

"She's my mother." Regina sniffles, but the tears have mostly stopped again. Her eyes damp, but not brimming. Her cheeks itchy with saltwater.

"That doesn't matter."

"It does to me." Regina's gaze drops down to his bare chest, and she admits on a whisper, "I love her. And I want her to be proud of me. I want her to see me..." She takes in a shuddering breath, blinks out a few more tears, and finishes with words that somehow settle her heat more than anything he's been able to say to her all week, "...the way that you do."

He manages a smile then - a small one, but genuine, his hand coasting up and down along her spine, once.

"Thank you for loving me," she tells him, another tear escaping. "I really needed it this week."

Robin lets out a dry chuckle, shakes his head at her, and says kindly, "It's not a hardship, my love. Whatever she may have convinced you of over all these years, you're easy to love."

She lets herself believe it this time, nods her head and chews her lip and settles down against his chest with a sigh.

It's silent for a few minutes, long enough for Regina's tears to dry and her eyes to start drooping, her head aching with the fading effects of whiskey and high emotions. Then, Robin murmurs into the quiet, "She's wrong, you know. About my parents. Like you, I got stuck with one parent who loved me dearly, and one I'd gladly trade. After my mother died, my father could hardly be bothered. I've told myself sometimes that perhaps I just reminded him too much of her, or of his pain, or…" Robin lets out a slow breath beneath her, and Regina plays her fingers in soothing trails along his chest. Flattens her palm over his sternum. "I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it? It still hurts in the end." Boy, does it ever, she thinks. She nods against him again, spirals her fingers in lazy, swirling loops over his skin. "I was lucky, though. My uncle - my mother's brother - took quite an interest in me, made sure I didn't go completely off the rails during my teenage years. I don't think I'd be the man I am today if it weren't for him."

"Then I guess we're both lucky," she murmurs, turning her head to press her lips against his skin. His find her brow and press there, linger. They go quiet again, and she feels heavy, sleepy. But she doesn't want to shut her eyes just yet, not when she feels so close to him - closer than she has to anyone in ages. So she sighs softly and props her head up again, asking, "Do you ever worry you're gonna be a horrible parent, and totally screw up your kid? That someday it will be Roland - or Henry - lying here with a woman, talking about how fucked his parents made him?"

Robin chuckles. "Of course," he half-sighs, half-grunts, stretching a little beneath her. The leather squeaks as it pulls against his dewy skin, and Regina wonders if he's uncomfortable, thinks they should move. "But I think we're both doing pretty well, if our boys are any indication. They're well-loved kids, and I've made my mission with Roland for him to know that he can always, always come to me. That I'll always be there, and I'll always care, even when he's not with me. And I've spent enough time with Henry to know he thinks you hang the moon."

She smiles at that, a flush of proud pleasure blooming in her chest. Still, she admits, "Sometimes I think he likes Emma more than me. She's the fun parent, and I'm the hardass."

The corner of his mouth tilts up and he splays his fingers over her hip and squeezes gently. "That's just because she lets him eat brownies for breakfast and helped him beat all of Donkey Kong." Regina snorts softly, mutters, _True_. "Who does he want when he's sick?"

"Me," she answers softly, lips curving, and Robin lifts his brows pointedly as if to say, _See?_

"You're his mum," Robin tells her. "She's his… Emma."

"Yeah. I don't know what I'd do without her, to be honest. She's helped raise him. I'm not sure how much he even remembers of a life before Mom and Emma."

"You're lucky to have her," Robin agrees. "She cares a lot about you." A scowl pulls at his mouth for a moment, a faint one, but one nonetheless. "That's why she said what she did earlier - about the phone call. She knew you were still upset, and she cared. She wanted me to know that you were hurting, that's all. Don't be too hard on her."

Regina shakes her head dismissively. "It's alright. I'm sure she meant well. I was just... still reeling, I guess."

"I was worried for you. I knew something wasn't right," he murmurs softly, fingers lifting to brush her hair back softly, tracing her hairline and sinking back behind her ear. "That call really threw you for a loop."

"It wasn't just that," Regina sighs, finally showing all her cards (she should've in the first place, she thinks. Could have saved herself some anxiety). "It was the party, too, and tomorrow – Marian."

"You've nothing to worry about with Marian," Robin assures her. His fingers are against her neck now, opening and closing slowly, making goosebumps rise and tighten. But it's pleasant, so she tilts her head, leans into the touch. "She doesn't blame you for what happened, and she's hardly a frightening woman. Perhaps it will be awkward for a moment, but I assure you, she's probably sitting at home fretting about it just as much as you are."

Regina rolls her eyes and scoffs quietly. "Right. I'm sure the classics professor at Yale is absolutely in knots about meeting the new girlfriend who bakes pies for a living."

"That's your mother speaking," he informs her shortly, shaking his head and moving his hand around to press his thumb against her lip to shush her. "And I'm going to ask you to try to silence her. Contrary to what she may have tried to convince you, you're not a woman of little worth. And it may surprise you to hear this, but Marian is intimidated by you."

Regina blinks, frowns deeply, her brow knitting. "She...what? Why?"

"Because you're everything she's not," he shrugs. "Because our boy comes home and says you bake the best cookies he's ever had, and I've seen her burn break-and-bake. Your mother may not prize those things highly, but for those to whom it doesn't come so naturally... it's a sore spot. Especially when your only child comes home raving about someone else's cooking, and wants to bake with you, and then tells you Regina makes better cupcakes than yours and maybe you should have her show you how."

Regina's eyes go wide, her mouth falling open for a moment before she breathes, "No... He didn't."

"Oh, yes, he did," Robin informs her with a grimace. "Four year olds aren't the most tactful, I'm afraid."

"God, I'd have felt awful if Henry said something like that to me."

"She wasn't overly thrilled," Robin agrees. And then he continues on, "And I left her for life as a single father and now I'm spending all my free time 'playing house' with you and our sons. You're younger than her - the new make and model, a domestic goddess and instant new mommy for Roland, should we marry someday." Regina's heart stutters at the way he says it, with no fanfare, just a fact of their possible future together. It's not as though the thought hasn't crossed her mind in the months they've been together, it has, but to hear it from him… It takes her a moment to catch up, to push the thoughts away, to focus on what he's saying to her. "But a better one - one that has already raised a boy and been through all the challenges to come, and who makes homemade treats and delicious meals, and probably does arts and crafts and makes her own... everything. Need I go on?"

"I really wish you wouldn't," she chuckles, shaking her head, focusing on the conversation at hand, not hypothetical eventualities. "Not all of that is true. Please tell me she doesn't really see me that way."

"Imaginations run wild when one doesn't have all the facts that make up a person. How do you see her?" he challenges lightly. "A stodgy professor, all severe with her glasses and her pile of dusty old textbooks? Perhaps she spends her afternoons talking in depth about opera and Shakespeare?"

Regina's not really sure, so she shrugs and shakes her head. "Smart. Cultured. With a vast knowledge of, yes, all the things my mother would prize in a daughter. She probably goes wine tasting and watches old black and white movies, and talks about the latest thing she read in the New Yorker, or what she saw on her last vacation – working vacation – in... Crete."

Robin smiles at her, warm and sympathetic. Then says, "She likes Zeppelin."

Regina's brows rise. "Zeppelin?"

"Yes. Zeppelin. And, oddly, 90s rock. The Gin Blossoms, and the Goo Goo Dolls. And Roland has known that 'Roll to Me' song word for word since he was three." He looks to the ceiling and inhales, exhales. Thinking. Regina waits him out.

"She does read all sorts of incredibly esoteric, high-brow literature, but her true guilty pleasure is awful, tawdry bodice-ripper romance novels." There's something in the way he says it, something exaggerated and humorously critical that makes Regina laugh softly. "And I'm not talking the well-written ones, either. I mean the ones with the half-naked men with flowing hair and women with perilously heaving bosoms on the covers, and-" She's face down in his chest now, practically giggling, although she can't quite place why, "if she knew I was telling you this, she would deny it emphatically and then skin me alive the minute she got me alone."

Her laughter tapers off with a smiling sigh, and Regina assures, "Her secret's safe with me."

"Not so imposing anymore, now is she?"

Regina's shoulder jerks, a half-shrug, and she concedes, "I guess not. She's still your ex-wife."

"Yes, she is that," he agrees. "And Roland's mother, and you've a right to your nerves, but there's no need to build her up into more than she is. She's just another mother, like you. Just as easily troubled at the idea of meeting someone important to the people she cares about." His hand tangles into the hair at her nape, his fingers cupping the base of her skull as he urges, "So please, my love, don't worry yourself into a state over meeting her. It'll be fine. I promise."

Regina's nods and exhales, her cheeks going preemptively hot as she drops her eyes and murmurs, "I don't want her to think you're... dating down."

"Dating down?" he questions, and Regina can't answer him. It's what her mother would think, that he's backsliding socially by moving on with her instead of someone equally... Marian-esque. But the words are stuck behind lips pressed tightly together, and it's not until she looks up at him with tears brimming in her eyes again that he seems to truly understand what she means. And she knows the moment he does, because his expression goes pained, pinched, his brow wrinkling as he shakes his head. And then he looks her dead in the eyes, moves his hands to her cheeks, and says, "You are not a downgrade, Regina."

She takes a breath and blinks back the tears and tells him breathily, "I know. I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"There's more to life than accolades. You have to stop using your mother's benchmarks for the whole world - there's no difference between you and Marian. You're not less than-"

"I _know_," Regina interrupts, because she does, she truly does. She knows Cora is wrong, she knows it, she has always known. And yet... She plunks her forehead down onto his chest and mutters, "I don't know what's wrong with me this week."

He hums softly, threads his fingers back from her crown, raking them gently through her hair. "It's been a stressful one. I think perhaps you're in a bit of a funk. A blue mood." Yes, she thinks. She is. "And your mother got all in your head, and bruised your heart. But tomorrow you'll meet Marian and then all these stressful things will be past, and it'll be back to life as usual. And I will tell you, a million times, every day, how wonderful you are, until you can hear me over your mother - whom, by the way, it's probably best I never meet, lest I ruin her favorable impression of me by telling her exactly what I think of how she treats you."

His shift from reassurance to bitter ire makes her smile - as does the idea that he would stand up for her without question, even in front of Cora. "I actually think I'd pay to see that," she tells him lightly. "Not many people give my mother a piece of their minds."

"Well, then allow me to be one of the few," he tells her, and then he's craning to see the clock on his desk, and saying that it's late, past her bedtime, they should get some sleep.

Her eyes are staring to feel sandpapery, she's tired, so tired, so ready to sink into unconsciousness for a little while. It's not a hardship to let the subject drop and follow him to the bedroom.

Last night, sleep had been a struggle. A late evening battle between miserable tears and emotional exhaustion. Tonight, though, with Robin's warm body next to hers, she sinks into it easily.

**.::.**

She's never been more glad that Robin lives so close to the bakery than she is on Friday morning. She wakes at 4:15, the chime of her cell phone alarm stabbing into her head. It is achy, pulsing dully, and she is cotton-mouthed and lead-limbed.

Hungover, she realizes with a groan. That's just great.

She fumbles to reset the alarm - changes it to 4:45AM - she's just down the block, and if she goes in a little bit late, who will ever know? Or care? So they might not be fully stocked on every flavor of mini pies the minute they open; people will live. Just this one day, people will survive without having to choose between sour cherry and pumpkin.

She does stumble out of bed, though, making her way to the bathroom and peeing, then pouring herself a cup of water in the kitchen and gulping the whole thing down with a couple of Advil. She refills the glass and sips slowly as she pads back to the bedroom, then slips beneath the covers again.

She cuddles herself in close to Robin, starved for body heat from just her five minutes outside the warm covers, and his arm drags around her belly, leaden and slow. He breathes in, breathes out heavily, nuzzles into her shoulder and mumbles, "Choo hv go t'work?"

Her lips curve a little at his sleepy slurring, and she weaves their fingers, burrows back against him. "Not yet," she whispers. "I'm feeling that whiskey."

He grunts, kisses her shoulder, and is out cold again. Regina follows shortly thereafter, and her alarm is only slightly more tolerable the second time around.

She showers quickly, and has to walk-of-shame herself in that blue dress (she skips the pantyhose, it's only a few minutes in the cold) to the bakery, where she'd left herself a clean outfit yesterday for just this purpose. It's nothing fancy - snug jeans in dark grey, a ruby-red tanktop and tissue-thin t-shirt, and a deep purple sweater she can pull on when Marian arrives this afternoon. She's supposed to come with Roland at 2, she and Robin, and try as she might, Regina cannot help mentally counting down the minutes.

Despite Robin's reassurances, there are still nerves skittering up and down her spine about the whole thing, and she cannot wait until 2:30, when Marian is gone, and it's just them and their boys, and life can return to normal. No more anxiety-ridden meetings in the offing, no more hidden insecurities slicing at her insides. Just her, and Robin, and work, and kids, and life as usual. This week cannot end fast enough for her tastes.

The dull headache of too-much-whiskey follows her around all morning, but some very strong coffee and a couple of yesterday's cranberry spice muffins help with most of the lingering hangover, so by the time the midday shift change rolls around, she's in a relatively decent mood. Ashley arrives fifteen minutes early, and for a few minutes she lets the girl ramble on about her boyfriend, and the latest dumb male thing he's done. He's a sweet kid, Sean - she's met him several times - but he's a young man, and, well, men in their early 20s can be particularly obtuse.

Her phone rings at five minutes to noon, and she interrupts Ashley to answer it. It's Robin on the line and he greets her with a cautious, tentative, "Hello..." that smacks of bad news.

Her stomach sinks violently. "What is it?" she asks him, because what's the point in drawing this out?

"Marian called," he tells her, his tone still reluctant and tense. "She's early."

"Early?" Regina repeats.

"Yes, she's outside my place now with Roland, and I've student appointments for the next hour, I can't have him here..."

Oh, he has got to be kidding her.

She says his name, a warning, disbelief, because she has a feeling she knows what's coming.

"She has an appointment; she can't wait." He pauses. "So... I told her to bring him to you."

She knew it was coming. She knew. But it still makes her flush with anger and ask, "You _what?_" He starts to answer, to apologize, but she's not listening - his place is just down the block, just minutes away, and even if he called her immediately when he hung up with Marian they've been on the phone long enough to put her halfway there at the very least. "I have to go," she interrupts him. "We'll talk about this later." Almost as an afterthought, she adds a cranky, "I love you." She's pulling the phone away from her head, his voice quiet and tinny with distance as he tries to tell her he loves her too. She's punching the end button before he finishes his declaration, and lifting her hands to her head, would be raking them through her hair if it wasn't pulled back. "Shit," she mutters ripely, tugging at the ties of her apron.

Ashley is still there, had been watching Regina with growing concern as she took the call. "Is everything okay? Anything I can do to help?"

Regina nods, already turning toward the office and calling over her shoulder, "Tell Ruby I need her for an extra ten minutes and take those muffins out when the timer goes off in a minute. Preferably without burning yourself..."

She doesn't wait for Ashley to answer, doesn't have time, before she's shutting the door behind her and muttering a litany of strong language under her breath as she swaps apron for sweater, quickly reapplies deodorant and spritzes herself with perfume. She re-ties her ponytail, takes a deep breath, and emerges back into the kitchen in time to hear the jingle of the bell over the bakery door and Roland's excited cry of "Rubyyyy!"

"Wish me luck," she mutters to Ashley as she breezes by, Ashley's soft _Good luck_ reaching her as she pushes through the kitchen door into the front of the bakery.

And there they are, Roland and his mother - Marian - Robin's ex-wife. Roland is clutching his little rolly suitcase and grinning with those deep, deep dimples as Ruby waves at him from behind the counter - and her line of customers a half-dozen deep. Marian stands next to him, and she's, God, beautiful, Regina thinks with a flare of insecurity. Warm, caramel-colored skin and long dark curls that are tied back but draped down one shoulder. Her coat is neatly tailored, her jeans snug, her boots tall, soft leather. Marian's makeup is flawlessly understated, her mouth twisted into something that's trying to be a smile at Roland's excitement but it's too tainted with what Regina thinks is irritation to really pull it off - so it seems she's not thrilled with this arrangement either. And then her gaze flicks over to Regina for the first time, and the expression smoothes out, becomes something more neutral and almost pleasant.

Roland spies her too, says, "Hi, Regina!" and Regina gives Marian what she hopes is a friendly smile and a half-nod of acknowledgement before she crouches in front of Roland, and smiles at him.

"Hello, sweetheart," she greets.

"Daddy's at work," he informs her, bouncing a little on his feet. "So he says I get to come stay with you!"

"So I hear," Regina tells him kindly, before leaning in conspiratorially and lowering her voice to a stage whisper, "But now we have a problem."

Roland leans in, too, his eyes going wide and concerned. "What's wrong?" he whispers back, even louder than her own raspy words - which are intentionally loud enough to be heard by the woman standing not a foot away.

"Well, your daddy was supposed to introduce me to your mommy when you got here, but now he's not here…" She sighs a little, forces something between a frown and a pout. "Now how will I know who she is?"

Roland's whole face lights up, his back straightening proudly. "I'll introduce you!" he insists excitedly, reaching for her hand and pulling her a few inches closer, pointing her toward Marian. "Mommy, this is Regina," he announces with a big grin. And then he looks at Regina again and says, "And that's Mommy."

She lets out an exaggeratedly relieved breath, and tells him with excessive gratitude, "Thank you, Roland." And then she holds out a hand to Marian, the other woman smiling knowingly down at her son for a half-moment before she reaches out to shake it. _Well played, Mills,_ Regina tells herself. Make it about Roland first, break the tension… "It's good to finally meet you."

"You, too. But you should probably call me Marian," the other woman says gamely, and they share a chuckle, Roland looking up between them, pleased as punch and still gripping Regina's fingers. And then Marian continues, "I'm sorry to spring him on you like this, but my appointment got moved up, and-"

Regina waves her off, shakes her head. "Oh, no, it's no trouble." It is, sort of; she's either going to have to keep an eye on him in the kitchen - where he has heretofore never been allowed to visit during business hours (the bakery, yes, plenty, but never the kitchen - Robin has always stressed the need to stay out of Regina's workspace unless it was absolutely unavoidable), or leave Ashley in charge of both a four-year-old and the lunch rush. But Marian doesn't need to know that, and as irritated as she is to have them dumped at her doorstep two hours ahead of schedule, she recognizes that there wasn't much of another option here. So she smiles down at Roland, swings their hands and says, "We'll put him to work."

Roland's eyes go big and excited. "I can go in the kitchen?" he asks, with one of those charming grins he's inherited from Robin.

Regina grimaces slightly, shaking her head. "I don't know, sweetheart. You know why Daddy always says to stay out of the kitchen, right?"

He nods once, twice, says, "Because there's hot stuff in there, and I could get burned."

"Right," she confirms. "So maybe today you can help Ashley behind the counter, how does that sound?" She crouches down to his level again, because she doesn't like to tower over him, to talk down to him. "You can be our official greeter, and smile at all the customers," she taps the bottom of his chin and his grin spreads even wider, her own echoing it automatically, "and tell them all welcome and good afternoon. Do you think you could do that to help out?"

He nods, and Marian chuckles and says, "I think he'd be very good at that. He's quite the little charmer."

"Oh, I've seen the charm," Regina assures, straightening again. "And the puppy dog eyes." She wants to add that she knows exactly where he gets both of those things, too, but that seems ill-advised. As she opens her mouth again, intending to tell Marian that she doesn't want to delay her if she has a schedule to keep, Roland pipes up, interrupting with her name, said oh-so-sweetly. Her smile goes wry and knowing, and she and Marian share a look. "Yes, Roland?"

"Can I have a cookie?"

"Have you had lunch?"

He smiles at her, all lashes and dimples, and looks between her, and his mother. Trying to decide if he can get away with lying, she thinks, but Marian doesn't give him the chance.

"No," she answers for him, with just enough edge to her tone for Regina to think she'd guessed right as to Roland's internal struggle. "He hasn't."

"Lunch first," Regina declares with a shake of her head. "Then cookies - _one_ cookie."

Roland doesn't protest, just says, "Okay, but maybe two cookies?" and Regina shakes her head, repeats _one cookie_, then turns her attention to Marian. "Can I get you anything?" she asks. "I know you have to run, but if you want a sandwich or coffee, anything. It's on the house."

"Oh, that's-" Marian smiles warmly. "Thank you." She glances at her watch and nods, says, "I suppose I have time for a quick bite. Maybe Roland can tell me what's good?"

"Everything's good, Mama," he tells her matter-of-factly, reaching for her hand now and pulling her toward the bakery case, starting to tell her about his favorite things. "There's samwiches, and red pie, and pumpkin pie, and lemon pie, and sometimes chocolate pie, and chocolate chip cake, and apple cake, and blueberry muffins."

Regina hears Marian laugh softly at him, as she surveys the bakery seating with a glance. All the tables are full, she realizes - there are even bodies taking up space at the bar along the front window. Damn. Looks like Roland will get to venture into the kitchen after all.

She meets them at the bakery case and asks, "What looks good today, Roland?"

"Chocolate pie!" he exclaims, and has Regina and Marian both shaking their heads immediately, telling him tandem '_No_'s. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Regina feels a lance of anxiety, like maybe she's overstepping, maybe she should hang back while Marian is here, but Marian just smiles warmly at her, and nods approvingly.

"You can have a sandwich," Marian tells him. "How about that ham and cheese one. You like ham."

He nods, says, "Okay, Mama," and then, "What kind for you?"

"Oh, I think I'll try some of that gingerbread pound cake," she says, looking to Regina again with a question: "And a cappuccino? To go?"

Regina nods, tells her, "Of course, no problem. Coming right up."

"Let's go wash up," Marian urges Roland, but he shakes his head.

"No, Mama, we have to pay first," Roland insists, but Regina shakes her head, tells him _no, no, it's okay_. Today, they get to eat for free. Roland's little brow furrows, and he says, "But Daddy always pays."

"Well, Daddy eats an awful lot of the product," Regina tells him with a smile. "If Daddy didn't pay, I might have to mortgage the place. But two meals, I can handle, so today, you and your mommy get a treat on me. So why don't you go into the kitchen-" His dark eyes go big and excited, and she can't help but grin, "And let Ashley show you where to wash your hands, and where you can sit and eat. And I'll bring your lunch right in, okay?"

"Okay!" he agrees, before practically dragging Marian into the kitchen.

Regina plates Roland's sandwich and Marian's pound cake, pours milk for the boy and steams a cappuccino for his mother, and then sets them all on the pass-through. While she does, Ruby looks at her with raised brows, asks quietly, "How's it going?" and Regina offers her a weak smile.

"Good?" she says with an unsure grimace, because it all seems perfectly pleasant - which feels a little too good to be true.

"If you want me to stay and watch him, I can," she offers, and Regina deflates with relief.

"Would you? I'll pay you, I don't mind, I'd just hate to turn my back for a second and have him reaching for a hot pan or something, you know?"

"You don't have to pay me, Regina," Ruby scoffs (the bell over the door jingles, and the young brunette's gaze flicks away, to the new customer making her way over). "It's Roland, it's cool." She jerks her head toward the pass-through, and says, "Go," then turns back to greet her patron with a smile.

Regina hears her casual, "Hey, Victor. Save any lives last night?" as she pushes her way into the kitchen.

Marian and Roland are already sitting at the prep table (it's been wiped down and cleared off for the most part), and Ashley is reaching for the food on the pass-through, carrying their plates over. Regina grabs the cups, and tells Ashley, "Don't worry about this; you can go relieve Ruby."

Ashley smirks and says, "Nah, I think she likes that guy. The doctor."

Regina rolls her eyes, makes a slightly exasperated noise, and says, "Then please, go relieve Ruby. Something about him just rubs me the wrong way."

"If I relieve her, she'll just eat with him," Ashley points out, and fair enough, that's true. The blonde nods toward the food in front of Marian and Roland (he's already taken a big bite and is chewing and chewing and chewing). "What are you having?" she asks Regina, and Regina shakes her head.

"No, I'm good," she assures, earning a raised brow from the young blonde and a firm declaration of her name. She'd have insisted again not to worry about her if her stomach hadn't chosen that exact moment to rumble noisily. Huh. She'd thought she was too keyed up and anxious for hunger, but apparently her body has other plans. So she gives in, sighs, "A… chocolate croissant and a chai tea."

Ashley nods, urges, "Sit for a minute, we've got this," and disappears back into the front.

Sitting isn't really an option - there are only two stools in the kitchen, and they're both full, but Regina leans against the table behind Roland, takes a breath in, out, has no idea what to say.

Well, that's not true. She has something to say, but it's perhaps not best said in front of Roland. She swallows, looks down at the top of his curly head, and debates whether to risk it, but Marian is talking before she has a chance to.

"This is really excellent," she tells her, after swallowing a bite of her cake. "What's the glaze?"

"Coffee," Regina answers, and Marian nods, smiles, takes another bite.

"Regina," Roland says, his mouth half-full.

"Chew first," she urges, "Then talk."

Marian smirks, reaches for her cappuccino as Roland gives a big, gulping swallow.

"What happened to chewing?" she asks her son after swallowing her own, smaller bite.

He shrugs. "I dinint need to."

"Didn't," Marian and Regina both correct. Their eyes meet again, and this time they both break into a chuckle, shaking their heads.

"I have a ten year old," Regina informs her needlessly, smiling easily now. Something about the moment has cracked apart all the tension in the room. Just two mothers, she thinks. Just like Robin had said.

"So I hear," Marian tells her. "Henry, right?"

"I like Henry!" Roland pipes up. "Is he gonna be here today?"

"He is," Regina assures, "Just as soon as he's done with school."

"And we'll have cookies?"

"Yes, you'll have cookies. One after lunch, one when Henry gets here." She lifts her brows at Marian, a question in her expression - _Is that okay?_ and the other woman nods and forks up more pound cake. "Did you have something you wanted to say before?" she asks Roland.

He nods. "Why's Ashley and Ruby both here today? Usually it's just one."

"Well, you guys got here right as Ruby was supposed to be leaving, but she said she'd stay a little bit longer to help out while I talk to you and your mommy."

"Oh. Okay," he says, satisfied, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"I'm keeping you," Marian says reluctantly, "I should let you get back to work. Are you sure he's no trouble? I can go force him on Robin," she assures with a wry little smile. "And we know other people, I can see if–"

"It's fine," Regina assures. "It's an hour and a half, it's no problem." She rakes a hand affectionately through Roland's curls, and says, "And we've already promised he can say hello to all the customers, haven't we, Roland?"

He nods again, mouth still full, and Marian relaxes.

Ruby breezes in, then, ordering Regina brusquely, "Eat your lunch, before your tea gets cold."

Regina glances at the pass-through – sure enough, there's a plate and mug she hadn't even noticed sitting there. As she goes to retrieve them, Ruby asks Roland if he wants to be her buddy today. They'll help Ashley out at the counter, she says, and she'll teach him how to make a proper cappuccino.

"You will not let him touch the espresso machine," Regina orders, her chai tea freezing an inch from her lip. "The last thing I need is him thinking he knows how and ending up with a steam burn."

Ruby sighs dramatically, then says, "Fine, maybe we'll count the till."

"That I'll allow," she concedes.

Marian has finished her pound cake, and slides off her stool, grabs her cappuccino and walks toward Regina. Ruby takes her place, has Roland giggling over something.

"This is a nice place," Marian tells her. "I can see why Roland likes it so much."

"Thank you." Regina smiles at the compliment, then takes a deep breath and says, "I thought you knew." Marian brow furrows, confused, and Regina clarifies, "About me, before. I didn't know he hadn't told you about us. If I had... well, he'd have told you sooner. If Henry was spending time – overnights – with people I didn't know and hadn't even been told about, I… I would be pretty ticked off too. So, I'm sorry."

Marian shakes her head, says, "It's alright. I know it wasn't you. He was just being… Robin." She shrugs, rolls her eyes a little, her head shaking slightly. A practiced look of spousal ire. "I suppose I could've handled it better."

Regina shrugs one shoulder and dismisses, "It happened how it happened. Can't change the past."

"Right," Marian agrees, and then she's checking her watch again, a look of mild apprehension flickering across her face. "I should get going. Thanks for the lunch."

"Of course, any time," Regina assures, asking her if she wants anything to go. Marian tells her it's not necessary, but in the time it takes for her to say her goodbyes to Roland, Regina has ducked out front and boxed a couple of snickerdoodles for her anyway. She passes them into Marian's hands, insistent, _for the road_ she tells her, and the other woman relents with a grateful smile.

Robin shows up at half past two; she hears him before she sees him. Or hears Roland, rather, and his excited exclamation of "Daddy!"

She's in the kitchen, listening via the pass-through as Robin greets, "My boy!"

"Are those for Regina?" Roland asks, and Regina tilts her head curiously, a smile blooming across her face. It will be flowers, she thinks. Apology flowers.

"They are," Robin tells his son, his voice moving closer, and then he grunts exaggeratedly, Roland giggling and cellophane crinkling noisily. "Shall we go find her?"

"She's in the kitchen," Roland says, and Robin says he bets she is, and then the kitchen door is swinging open and there they are - Robin with his son on his hip, and an apologetic smile on his face, a dozen red and white roses in his other hand.

Her smile spreads and warms, and she reaches for the flowers, takes them and sniffs. "More roses," she observes, "I'm going to have to open a side business as a florist."

Robin's smile goes less guilty, more relieved, once he realizes she doesn't seem to be angry with him.

"Regina met Mommy today," Roland informs his father, his little fingers fiddling idly with the collar of Robin's coat.

"I know she did," Robin says, his gaze locking with Regina's as he says, "And I'm very sorry to have missed it. I should've been here to introduce them."

He may be talking to Roland, but the words are meant for her. A sincere apology for leaving her in the lurch on this one. She nods her forgiveness, her smile softening.

"It's okay," Roland tells him. "I did it. Now they're friends."

Robin's brows lift, impressed, watching Regina as she chuckles. "So it went well, then?"

"It did," she assures, finally closing the distance between them and reaching up to kiss him hello. "But thank you regardless for the apology flowers. Now…" She takes a deep breath in, then out, and looks to Roland. "Do you boys want to help me make cookies for Henry?"

Roland's mouth drops open into a thrilled smile, Robin's face suitably and pleasantly surprised as well. "You'd trust us with such a task?"

"Under my supervision, yes," she assures.

And they do just that - the boys wash up while she puts the flowers in water, and then they spend the afternoon baking under her watchful eye.

It feels good, feels right, and when her son walks in an hour later, trailing grey, slushy footprints and pink-cheeked Emma and Neal behind him, Regina says goodbye to this hellish week, and focuses on the familiar ease of a weekend with her family.


End file.
